The clock strikes twelve !-prophetic'ly revealing Soon must I hear its dismal thunders pealing, ELEGY ON THE MEMORY OF JOHN BROWN, Of Coldstream, Newtown. "Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord."-Rev. xiv. 13. ULD Johnny's win awa at last, Frae simmer's heat and winter's blast: Life's toils and troubles a' are past Wi' him for ever, Wha in auld Lennel snoozes fast, By Tweed's fair river. O mourn, Newtown, baith lang and sair! That Death has made, When Johnny's snug bit biggin there For mother wit and worth, true fame His faith and hope were free frae blame, While young and auld can test they came Direct frae heaven. His gashin' jokes nae mair we'll hear- His like, I doubt, will ne'er appear Nae mair he'll wander by Tweedside, Wi' his bit creel, Nor wi' the samont hameward glide Packed snod and weel. Mourn, Lennel Haugh, your frien's awa; And great Haugh now your sorrow shaw; And dreeper, twizel, boat and a', O loudly wail! And thou unequalled lovely Craw, Lament my tale. Ye trees that skirt yon rocky brae, Ilk cowslip that bedecked his way And ilka primrose tribute pay To him that's dead. To swell the dirge, ye warbling thrang, Changed be your notes o' praise and sang; For woe and wailing loud and lang Till echo frae The hail day through, But Time her sceptred reign shall yield, And vanquished Death shall quit the field, The trumpet tout, when a' concealed In earth and sea Shall burst the doors the tyrant sealed, Then shall our honest Johnny rise, And tears nae mair bedim the eyes E For mother wit and worth, true fame His faith and hope were free frae blame, While young and auld can test they came Direct frae heaven. His gashin' jokes nae mair we'll hear— His like, I doubt, will ne'er appear Nae mair he'll wander by Tweedside, Wi' his bit creel, Nor wi' the samont hameward glide Packed snod and weel. Mourn, Lennel Haugh, your frien's awa; And great Haugh now your sorrow shaw; And dreeper, twizel, boat and a', O loudly wail! And thou unequalled lovely Craw, Lament my tale. Ye trees that skirt yon rocky brae, Ilk cowslip that bedecked his way And ilka primrose tribute pay To him that's dead. To swell the dirge, ye warbling thrang, Changed be your notes o' praise and sang; For woe and wailing loud and lang Till echo frae The hail day through, But Time her sceptred reign shall yield, And vanquished Death shall quit the field, The trumpet tout, when a' concealed In earth and sea Shall burst the doors the tyrant sealed, Then shall our honest Johnny rise, And tears nae mair bedim the eyes E |