Robert Burns (1759–1796)

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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 exiled.

Ye hills, near neebors o’ the starns,

That proudly cock your cresting cairns!

Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing yearns,

Where Echo slumbers,

Come join, ye Nature’s sturdiest bairns,

My wailing numbers!

Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens!

Ye haz’lly shaws and briery dens!

Ye burnies, whimplin’ down your glens,

Wi’ todlin’ din,

Or foaming strang, wi’ hasty stens,

Frae lin to lin!

Mourn, little harebells owre the lea;

Ye stately foxgloves fair to see;

Ye woodbines hanging bonnilie,

In scented bowers;

Ye roses on your thorny tree,

The first o’ flowers.

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 forever!

Go to your sculptured tombs, ye great,

In a’ the tinsel trash o’ state;

But by thy honest turf I’ll wait,

Thou man of worth!

And weep the ae best fellow’s fate

E’er lay in earth.