_LINES_ ON THE DEATH OF JOHN, LORD DELAVAL; _Who died, May 17th, 1808.--Aged 80._
In hollow murmurs o’er the bending reeds Sorrow’s keen accents sweep across the meads; And as the grief-charg’d sound moves sad along, Unstrings the lute, and stills the wood nymph’s song. O’er all the sad’n’d scene the mournful train, In keenest anguish, join the solemn strain; Whilst recollection, with tenacious power, Thickens the gloom that damps the passing hour. The many banner’d trump of clarion fame, Sounds in full chords the blood stain’d warrior’s name, Echoes to realms remote, and nations far, The mighty power of man-destroying war. Deadens with magic force each softer lay, That throng’d the courts, and made the vallies gay: While the vain phantom, honour, barbs the wand, That waves destruction o’er the smiling land. And ’midst the accents of her harsher lays, Shall she forget to sound the good man’s praise? Forbid it, every spark of social love, That made, through life, his every passion move; That taught his heart with sympathy to glow, To stem the torrent of domestic woe. Whose open hand strew’d o’er the lowly scene, Plenty’s gay smiles, and joy’s delighted mien; Whose presence cheer’d, with animating ray, Life’s highest walks, and made the gay more gay: Fitted alike to grace the lordly dome, Or in the cottage make contentment bloom: Thy virtues, DELAVAL, we long shall mourn, And wash, with unfeign’d tears, thy hallow’d urn. No laurel wreath, nor high poetic lays Need bloom, or live in song to sound thy praise; For whilst thy loss our keenest sorrow moves, O’er all the _past_, delighted fancy roves; Each fond remembrance that reverts to thee, Tells what our _present_ conduct ought to be; And points, with heavenward aim, to that Dread Power, Whose mystic means unfolds the _future_ hour; Cheers the dark gloom of life’s last setting ray, And leads us on to everlasting day!
Of a’ the many bonny corps, Which now our country nigh fill, Where can ye shew me sic a corps, As the bonny Wallsend Rifle? The bonny Wallsend Rifle, The canny Wallsend Rifle; Where can ye shew me sic a corps, As the bonny Wallsend Rifle?
Whe loups the dykes, an’ climbs the wa’s, Then thinks it but a trifle? Why, naen amang the black-breek’d chaps; Naen but the Wallsend Rifle. The bonny, &c.