Where sleep the brave on Java strand,
Thy ardent spirit, Leyden! fled;
And Fame with cypress shades the land,
Where Genius fell, and Valour bled.
When triumph's tale is westward borne,
On Border-Hills no joys shall gleam;
And thy lov'd Teviot long shall mourn
The youthful minstrel of her stream.
Near Jura's rocks the Mermaid's strain
Shall change from glad to solemn lay;
For he is gone, the youthful swain,
Who sung the Maid of Colonsay.
The hardy Tar, Britannia's pride.
Shall hang his manly head in woe;
The Bard who told how Nelson died.
With harp unstrung, in earth lies low.
I see a weeping band arise,
I hear sad music on the gale;
Thy dirge is sung from Scotia's skies.
Her mountain sons their loss bewail.
The Minstrel of thy native North
Pours all his soul into the song;
It bursts from near the winding Forth,
And Highland rocks the notes prolong.
Yes! he who struck a matchless lyre
O'er Flodden's field and Katrine's wave,
With trembling hand now leads the choir
That mourns his Leyden's early grave.