The Funeral, XXIV

The seal lay on the scarry shore, As charm’d to hear the distant oar; The tarrock left Craig Leith’s rough breast, To crown the isles like feathery crest; And every rock that gemm’d the deep Was peopled like the grassy steep; Some launch the skiff, while others brave The swelling surface of the wave; Anxious to join the funeral train: And, but for weeds that pictured pain, ’Twas like a festive holiday, When princes short-lived visits pay, And the high rulers of the earth A jubilee give to lowly mirth.