ed-for death of his mare, Peg Nicholson, the successor of
Jenny Geddes. She had suffered both in the employ of the joyous priest
and the thoughtless poet. She acquired her name from that frantic
virago who attempted to murder George the Third.]

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare,
As ever trode on airn;
But now she's floating down the Nith,
And past the mouth o' Cairn.

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare,
And rode thro' thick an' thin;
But now she's floating down the Nith,
And wanting even the skin.

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare,
And ance she bore a priest;
But now she's flouting down the Nith,
For Solway fish a feast.

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare,
And the priest he rode her sair;
And much oppress'd and bruis'd she was;
As priest-rid cattle are, &c. &c.

* * * * *

CXII.

ON

CAPTAIN MATTHEW HENDERSON,

A GENTLEMAN WHO HELD THE PATENT FOR HIS HONOURS

IMMEDIATELY FROM ALMIGHTY GOD.

"Should the poor be flattered?"

SHAKSPEARE.

But now his radiant course is run,
For Matthew's course was bright;
His soul was like the glorious sun,
A matchless heav'nly light!

[Captain Matthew Henderson, a gentleman of very agreeable manners and
great propriety of character, usually lived in Edinburgh, dined
constantly at Fortune's Tavern, and was a member of the Capillaire
Club, which was composed of all who desired to be thought witty or
joyous: he died in 1789: Burns, in a note to the Poem, says, "I loved
the man much, and have not flattered his memory." Henderson seems
indeed to have been universally liked. "In our travelling party," says
Sir James Campbell, of Ardkinglass, "was Matthew Henderson, then
(1759) and afterwards well known and much esteemed in the town of
Edinburgh; at that time an officer in the twenty-fifth regiment of
foot, and like myself on his way to join the army; and I may say with
truth, that in the course of a long life I have never known a more
estimable character, than Matthew Henderson." _Memoirs of Campbell, of
Ardkinglass_, p. 17.]

O death! thou tyrant fell and bloody!
The meikle devil wi' a woodie
Haurl thee hame to his black smiddie,
O'er hurcheon hides,
And like stock-fish come o'er his studdie
Wi' thy auld sides!

He's gane! he's gane! he's frae us torn,