STANZAS. Written on ALEX. WILSON’S emigration to America. _____ O
DEATH! its no thy deeds I mourn, Tho’ oft my heart-strings thou
hast torn, ’Tis worth an’ merit left
forlorn, Life’s ills to dree, Gars now the pearlie,
brakish burn Gush frae my e'e. Is there what feels the melting
glow O’ Sympathy, for ithers woe, Come let our tears thegither
flow, O join
my mane! For Wilson worthiest of us a’, For ay is gane. He bravely strave ’gainst
fortune’s stream, While hope held forth ae
distant gleam, Till dash’d, and dash’d, time
after time, On life’s rough sea, He weep’d his thankless native clime, And sail’d away. The Patriot bauld, the social
brither, In him war’ sweetly join’d
thegither; He knaves
reprov’d without a swither, In keenest satire; And taught what mankind owe each ither, As sons of
nature. If thou hast heard his wee bit wren, Wail forth its sorrows thro’
the glen, Tell, how his warm, descriptive
pen Has thrill’d thy saul: His sensibility sae keen, He felt for all. Since now he’s gane, an’ Robert Burns is dead, Ah! wha
will tune the Scottish reed? Her Thistle, dowie hings its head; Her harp’s unstrung; While mountain, river, loch,
an’ mead, Remain unsung. Fareweel, thou much neglected
bard! These lines will speak my warm
regard. While strangers on a foreign
sward Thy worth hold
dear, Still some kind heart thy name shall guard Unsullied here. |