By Robert Allan.
While pity mourns the helpless child of woe,
And flowing tears bedew the placid eye,
O Tannahill ! for thee those tears should flow—
To thee belongs the deep heart-rending sigh.
In fond remembrance shall thy mem'ry live,
And fame shall rank thee Scotia's sons among ;
Thy wreath of laurel shall the Muses weave,
And oft for thee shall wake the minstrel's song.
Like Nature's self rock'd in the wintry storm,
Hard press'd with ills, a desolating train,
Thou saw and mark'd Fate's dire and hideous form,
That soon, too soon should blast Life's peaceful reign.
Sequester'd 'neath thy humble cottage roof,
Thy fancy roam'd o'er hill and woodland plain ;
From haunts of noise and folly stood aloof,
And sung thy artless animating strain.
Ill-fated Bard, what anguish wrung thy breast ;
Ah, who can tell of all thy grief and care ;
No soothing hope to bid thy spirit rest,
Nor chase the gloom of sadness and despair.
Then censure not the deed, ye generous few,
For heav'n may smile upon the wanderer's way ;
But requiems sing, and with flow'rets strew
The cold green sod that wraps the Poet's clay.
Robert Allan, weaver, Kilbarchan, another acquaintance of Tannahill's, to whom the Epistle No. 26 was addressed.—Ed.