Nor wanting ghosts of Tory fame;
     Bold Scrimgeour follows gallant Graham;
     Auld Covenanters shiver—­
     Forgive! forgive! much-wrong’d Montrose! 
     Now Death and Hell engulph thy foes,
     Thou liv’st on high for ever.

     Still o’er the field the combat burns,
     The Tories, Whigs, give way by turns;
     But Fate the word has spoken: 
     For woman’s wit and strength o’man,
     Alas! can do but what they can;
     The Tory ranks are broken.

     O that my een were flowing burns! 
     My voice, a lioness that mourns
     Her darling cubs’ undoing! 
     That I might greet, that I might cry,
     While Tories fall, while Tories fly,
     And furious Whigs pursuing!

     What Whig but melts for good Sir James,
     Dear to his country, by the names,
     Friend, Patron, Benefactor! 
     Not Pulteney’s wealth can Pulteney save;
     And Hopetoun falls, the generous, brave;
     And Stewart, bold as Hector.

     Thou, Pitt, shalt rue this overthrow,
     And Thurlow growl a curse of woe,
     And Melville melt in wailing: 
     Now Fox and Sheridan rejoice,
     And Burke shall sing, “O Prince, arise! 
     Thy power is all-prevailing!”

     For your poor friend, the Bard, afar
     He only hears and sees the war,
     A cool spectator purely! 
     So, when the storm the forest rends,
     The robin in the hedge descends,
     And sober chirps securely.

     Now, for my friends’ and brethren’s sakes,
     And for my dear-lov’d Land o’ Cakes,
     I pray with holy fire: 
     Lord, send a rough-shod troop o’ Hell
     O’er a’ wad Scotland buy or sell,
     To grind them in the mire!

Elegy On Captain Matthew Henderson

A Gentleman who held the Patent for his Honours immediately from
Almighty God.

     Should the poor be flattered?—­Shakespeare.

     O Death! thou tyrant fell and bloody! 
     The meikle devil wi’ a woodie
     Haurl thee hame to his black smiddie,
     O’er hurcheon hides,
     And like stock-fish come o’er his studdie
     Wi’ thy auld sides!

     He’s gane, he’s gane! he’s frae us torn,
     The ae best fellow e’er was born! 
     Thee, Matthew, Nature’s sel’ shall mourn,
     By wood and wild,
     Where haply, Pity strays forlorn,
     Frae man exil’d.

     Ye hills, near neighbours o’ the starns,
     That proudly cock your cresting cairns! 
     Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing earns,
     Where Echo slumbers! 
     Come join, ye Nature’s sturdiest bairns,
     My wailing numbers!

     Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens! 
     Ye haz’ly shaws and briery dens! 
     Ye burnies, wimplin’ down your glens,
     Wi’ toddlin din,
     Or foaming, strang, wi’ hasty stens,
     Frae lin to lin.