Alexander Wilson

Robert Tannahill, "On Alex. Wilson's Emigration to America" 1794 ca.; Scots Magazine 69 (July 1807) 526.

O Death! its no thy deeds I mourn,
Tho' oft my heart-strings thou hast torn,
'Tis worth an' merit left forlorn,
Life's ills to dree,
Gars now the pearlie, brakish burn,
Gush frae my e'e.

Is there wha feels the melting glow
O' Sympathy, for ither's woe,
Come let our tears the gither flow,
O join my mane!
For Wilson, worthiest of us a',
For ay is gane.

He bravely strave 'gainst fortune's stream,
While hope held forth, ae distant gleam,
Till dash'd, and dash'd, time after time,
On life's rough sea,
He weep'd his thankless native clime,
And sail'd away.

The Patriot bauld, the social brither,
In him war' sweetly joined thegither;
He knaves reproved without a swither,
In keenest satire;
And taught what mankind owe each ither,
As sons of nature.

If thou hast heard his wee bit wren,
Wail forth its sorrows thro' the glen,
Tell, how his warm, descriptive pen,
Has thrill'd thy saul:
His sensibility sae keen,
He felt for all.

Since now he's gane, an' Burns is dead,
Ah! wha will tune the Scottish reed?
Her thistle, dowie hings its head;
Her harp's unstrung;
While mountain, river, loch, an' meed,
Remain unsung.

Fareweel, thou much neglected bard!
These lines will speak my warm regard,
While strangers on a foreign sward
Thy worth hold dear,
Still some kind heart thy name shall guard,
Unsullied here.