Alexander Waugh (16 August 1754 – 14 December 1827) was a minister in the Secession Church of Scotland, co-founder of the London Missionary Society,[1]: 1 [2]: 152 and one of the leading Nonconformist preachers of his day.
[2]: iii On 10 August 1786, Waugh married Mary Neill (1760–1840) in her family home at Edincrow, Coldingham, Berwickshire, Scotland,[2]: 79 [1]: 37 sister of John Neill (1754–1831) of 21 Surrey St., London who established a successful commodity trading business in London.
The funeral procession began in Paddington, extending almost half a mile, consisting of forty two mourning coaches and thirteen private carriages, and ended at Bunhill Fields where Waugh was buried.
[8] The Scottish writer, poet, and abolitionist Thomas Pringle wrote the following poem in memory of Waugh in 1827:
He would have shown thee where alone is found Their true enjoyment — on the Christian plan Of holiness to God and love to man.
Are poverty, disease, disgrace, despair, The ills, the anguish to which flesh is heir, Thy household inmates?
And ye far habitants of heathen lands, For you he raised his voice and stretched his hands; And taught new-wakened sympathy to start With generous throb through many a British heart; Till wide o'er farthest oceans waved the sail That bade in Jesus' name the nations hail.
And they Through life who loved him till his latest day, Of many a noble, gentle trait can tell, That as a man, friend, father, marked him well : The frank simplicity; the cordial flow Of kind affection; the enthusiast glow That love of Nature or his Native Land Would kindle in those eyes so bright and bland ; The unstudied eloquence that from his tongue Fell like the fresh dews by the breezes flung From fragrant woodlands; the benignant look That like a rainbow beamed through his rebuke — Rebuke more dreaded than a despot's frown, For sorrow more than anger called it down ; The winning way, the kindliness of speech, With which he wont the little ones to teach, As round his chair like clustering doves they clung — For, like his Master, much he loved the young.
These, and unnumbered traits like these, my verse Could fondly dwell upon; but o'er his hearse A passing wreath I may but stop to cast, Of love and grateful reverence the last Poor earthly token.
Weeping mourners here Perchance may count such frail memorial dear, Though vain and valueless it be to him Who tunes his golden harp amidst the seraphim!