“Ibi tu calentem
Debita sparges lacrima favillam
Vatis amici.” – CAR. II., 6.
MATTHIE, nae mair! ye’se gang your lane!
Tak’ my best wishes wi’ ye,
An’ may guid fortun’ owre the main
An’ snugly settled see ye!
I wuss ye weel! the kintra’s lairge,
An ye’re but twa wi’ Mary;
Ye’ll shortly hae the owner’s chairge
Nae doot o’ half a prairie.
There’s ample room in sic a park
To foond a score o’ nations,
An’ flourish like a patriarch
Amon’ your generations.
–
But me may Scotland’s bonnie hills
Maintain to utmost auld age,
Leadin’ my flocks by quiet rills,
An’ lingerin’ thro’ the gold age;
Untemptit wi’ a foreign gain
That mak’s ye merely laird oo’t,
An’ thinkin Scotland a’ min’ ain
Tho’ ownin’ ne’er a yaird o’t!
–
What hills are like the Ochil hills?
There’s nane sae green, tho’ grander;
What rills are like the Ochil rills?
Nane, nane on earth that wander!
There Spring returns amon’ the sleet,
Ere Winter’s tack be near thro’;
There Spring an’ Simmer fain wad meet
To tarry a’ the year thro’!
–
An’ there in green Glendevon’s shade
A grave at last be found me,
Wi’ daisies growin’ at my head
An’ Devon lingerin’ round me!
Nae stane disfigurement o’ grief
Wi’ lang narration rise there;
A line wad brawly serve, if brief,
To tell the lave wha lies there.
–
But ony sculptur’d wecht o’ stane
Wad onlly overpow’r me;
A shepherd, musin’ there his lane,
Were meeter bendin’ owre me.
