Classic Poem

Mourn, ye wee songsters o' the wood;
Ye grouse that crap the heather bud;
Ye curlews calling through a clud,
Ye whistling plover;
And mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood;
He's gane for ever!

Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals;
Ye fisher herons, watching eels,
Ye duck and drake, wi' airy wheels
Circling the lake:
Ye bitterns, til the quagmire reels,
Rair for his sake.

Mourn, clamouring crakes at close o' day,
'Mang fields o' flowering claver gay;
And when ye wing your annual way
Frae our cauld shore,
Tell thae far warlds wha lies in clay,
Wham we deplore.

Ye houlets, frae your ivy bower,
In some auld tree, or eldritch tower,
What time the moon, wi' silent glowr,
Sets up her horn,
Wail through the dreary midnight hour
Till waukrife morn.