Thy warfare's o'er, great chieftain, now's thy rest,
" Beyond the voices " of tumultuous time,
Quenched is the genial glow that warmed thy breast,
And made the beauties of thy life sublime.
Sleep soundly near the old beloved home,
Where often thou life's golden dream did weave;
Sleep soundly by the hills o'er which did roam
Thy youthful feet on many a joyous eve.

We mourn the silence of thy noble voice,
That charmed the ears, and swayed the hearts of men,
That made their souls with purest joy rejoice,
And brought life's hidden things within their ken.
Ah! thou, with sympathy's own magic touch,
Could heal life's broken springs, and bring again
Sweet music from the chords where over much
Of care and sorrow had left only pain.

And with thine eloquence thou couldst unlock
The worldling's heart, and bring his hoarded gold
Like streams of water from the flinty rock
To bless life's poor ones — hungry, faint, and cold.
And 'midst thy greatness and thy power, thou
With grace and tenderness did'st rich abound,
Like a great rock whose high majestic brow
With simple ivy and with heath is crowned.

Thou, like thine own " Wee Davie, " had become
A glorious centre where affections met,
Where sweet good-will had found a gladsome home,
From which to scatter drizzling clouds of jet.
Monarch and peasant claimed thee as a friend,
Their loves met, beauteously around thee twined;
And as in life, so in thy latter end,
Sweetly was lowliness with state combined.

They laid thee to thy rest beneath thy plaid,
The Highland plaid that thou didst love so well,
And o'er it proudly gentle hands had laid
The Queen's sweet offerings of immortelles .
Sleep soundly near thine own beloved home,
Till the great morn in golden light will break,
Sleep soundly till God's mighty voice will come
In joy and gladness to bid thee awake.