“Ye scatter’d birds that faintly sing,
     The reliques o’ the vernal queir! 
     Ye woods that shed on a’ the winds
     The honours of the aged year! 
     A few short months, and glad and gay,
     Again ye’ll charm the ear and e’e;
     But nocht in all-revolving time
     Can gladness bring again to me.

     “I am a bending aged tree,
     That long has stood the wind and rain;
     But now has come a cruel blast,
     And my last hald of earth is gane;
     Nae leaf o’ mine shall greet the spring,
     Nae simmer sun exalt my bloom;
     But I maun lie before the storm,
     And ithers plant them in my room.

“I’ve seen sae mony changefu’ years, On earth I am a stranger grown:  I wander in the ways of men, Alike unknowing, and unknown:  Unheard, unpitied, unreliev’d, I bear alane my lade o’ care, For silent, low, on beds of dust, Lie a’ hat would my sorrows share.

     “And last, (the sum of a’ my griefs!)
     My noble master lies in clay;
     The flow’r amang our barons bold,
     His country’s pride, his country’s stay: 
     In weary being now I pine,
     For a’ the life of life is dead,
     And hope has left may aged ken,
     On forward wing for ever fled.

     “Awake thy last sad voice, my harp! 
     The voice of woe and wild despair! 
     Awake, resound thy latest lay,
     Then sleep in silence evermair! 
     And thou, my last, best, only, friend,
     That fillest an untimely tomb,
     Accept this tribute from the Bard
     Thou brought from Fortune’s mirkest gloom.

     “In Poverty’s low barren vale,
     Thick mists obscure involv’d me round;
     Though oft I turn’d the wistful eye,
     Nae ray of fame was to be found: 
     Thou found’st me, like the morning sun
     That melts the fogs in limpid air,
     The friendless bard and rustic song
     Became alike thy fostering care.

     “O! why has worth so short a date,
     While villains ripen grey with time? 
     Must thou, the noble, gen’rous, great,
     Fall in bold manhood’s hardy prim
     Why did I live to see that day—­
     A day to me so full of woe? 
     O! had I met the mortal shaft
     That laid my benefactor low!

     “The bridegroom may forget the bride
     Was made his wedded wife yestreen;
     The monarch may forget the crown
     That on his head an hour has been;
     The mother may forget the child
     That smiles sae sweetly on her knee;
     But I’ll remember thee, Glencairn,
     And a’ that thou hast done for me!”

Lines Sent To Sir John Whiteford, Bart

     With The Lament On The Death Of the Earl Of Glencairn