James Hyslop

William Laing, "Ode to Crawick on the Loss of her Bard" 1827 ca.; in Hyslop, Poems (1887) 100.

In glen and glade, sweet winding stream,
Where'er thy crystal Waters shine,
For him in ceaseless murmurs mourn,
Who oft did blend his song with thine.
At close of day, he'll ne'er return,
To stray thy flowery banks along;
His gentle muse no longer may
Embalm thy beauties in her song.

Can ye not weep, ye smiling flowers,
That bloom so fair beneath the stream;
For him who sang your scented braes,
Nor knew, nor wished a sweeter theme?
For him, ye leafy woodlands, mourn,
With sighs that fragrant summer heaves;
Nor cease to sigh when autumn's winds
Make sport among your falling leaves.

The muse that sang the martyrs' tale
Shall wake no more the tuneful lay;
Nor ponder on the long-gone bye,
But well-remembered, Sabbath-day.
Dear be his memory 'mong the hills
And glens he loved and sang so well;
Record his fame, thou moorland wild,
Where saintly Cameron fought and fell.

Not long he stood the storms of time,
Life's sunset came when day was young;
Not long his simple strains were heard,
But, oh! his lyre was sweetly strung.
Mourn, gentle stream, thy gentle bard,
He sleeps not where thy waters lave,
Afar he found a resting-place,
Beneath the envious ocean's wave.