Elegy on Lady Rosslyn

Come, bang thy banners to the wain, —
The struggle's past, the prize is won :
Weel may thy lion shake his mane,
And turn his grey beard to the sun !

Oft hae I bragged o' thine and thee,
Even when thy back was at the wa' ;
Now thou my proudest sang shalt be
As lang as I hae breath to draw.

Where now the cuifs who boded wae,
And cauldness o'er thy efforts threw ?

And where the proudest, fellest fae,
Frae hell's black porch that ever flew ?

Here's to the hands sae lang upbore
The Rose and Shamrock blooming still ; —
An' here's — the burly plant of yore,
The Thistle of the Norlan' hill.

Lang may auld Britain's banners pale
Stream o'er the seas her might has won ; —
Lang may her lions paw the gale,
And turn their dewlaps to the sun !

Why sleeps the dew on that new grave,
Though all around is parched and dry ?

While bending boughs incumbent wave
To shield it from the burning sky ?

That crystal drop that stands so clear,
Within the dew-cup's silken eye,
Is pitying nature's holy tear,
Shed o'er her flower laid low to lie.

Here lies, within a chilly shroud,
The fairest of her works below ;
Her eye, the eagle's in the cloud,
Her cheek the rose, her brow the snow.

The smile that lightened in her face
Was sweet as morning's dawn to see ;
Her melting tones of love and grace
Were music by the greenwood tree.

The tear of pity in her eye
Was brighter than that dew-drop sheen :
Soft as the morning breeze her sigh,
That breathes among the birches green.

I've seen her seek the blue hare-bell,
That bends above the silver spring ;
Or brush the heath-flower from the fell,
With foot as light as fairy's wing :
Or resting in the broom-wood dale,
Her soul on fancy's pinions borne,
In vision rapt, the welkin sail
Throned on the star that leads the morn.

Now mouldering in the earth so cold ,
This lovely flower must quite decay,
That form of beauty's fairest mould
Become a mass of livid clay !

Yet, though I weep her early doom,
Her beauty, worth, for ever gone,
See o'er that breast the daisy bloom
Where virtue fixed her diamond throne ;
The vital spark of heavenly fire
That warmed it once shall ever burn,
And wake a seraph's golden lyre,
O'er fading nature's awful urn.