Classic Poem

O Death! its no thy deeds I mourn,
Though oft my heart-strings thou hast torn,
'Tis worth and merit left forlorn,
Life's ills to dree,
Gars now the pearlie, brackish burn
Gush frae my e'e.

Is there who feels the melting glow
Of sympathy for ithers woe?
Come, let our tears thegither flow,
O join my mane!
For Wilson, worthiest of us a',
For aye is gane.

He bravely strove '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 wept his native thankless clime,
And sail'd away.

The patriot bauld, the social brither,
In him were 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 through 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, and Burns is dead,
Ah! wha will tune the Scottish reed?
Her Thistle, dowie, hings its head;
Her harp's unstrung;
While mountain, river, loch, and 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.