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 presented to the 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA • SAN DIEGO 
 
 by 
 
 FRIENDS OF TlIF LIBRARY 
 
 Dr. Allan D. Rosenblatt 
 
 j U8RARY 
 
 iRStTY OF 
 
 ^AN DIEGO
 
 V J
 
 ROUND BURNS' GRAVE 
 
 THE 
 
 Paeans and Dirges of Many Bards, 
 
 GATHERED TOGETHER BY 
 
 ROUND BURNS GRAVE.
 
 , --'Tf- 
 
 V
 
 ROUND BURNS' GRAVE 
 
 THE 
 
 Paeans and Dirges of Many Bards, 
 
 GATHERED TOGETHER BY 
 
 JOHN D. ROSS, 
 
 EDITOR OF "celebrated SONGS OF SC^LAND," AND AUTHOR OF 
 "SCOTTISH I'OETS IN AMERICA.' 
 
 PAISLEY: ALEXANDER GARDNER, 
 
 :f ubltsber in i^ur Majesty tbe Queen. 
 
 1891.
 
 Round Burns' Grave, a poet band — 
 Singers, not of his native land 
 Alone — but bards of every clime, 
 Salute the Poet of all time. 
 
 And each his loving tribute lays — 
 A wreath of cypress twin'd with bays ; 
 As they approach the tomb by turns 
 That holds the sacred dust of Burns— 
 
 Feeble they feel their tongues to sing 
 The praises of their Poet King ; 
 But in each heart a quenchless flame 
 Leaps up to greet the Poet's name ! 
 
 Perchance his spirit hovering near 
 May stoop these lays of love to hear. 
 And breathe once more its magic spell 
 O'er brother bards who love him well. 
 
 —James D. Crichton.
 
 Dedicated to 
 
 
 (Author of " The Kiss ahint the Door," " When we were at the 
 £chule," and various otiier well-ktiown Scottish Songs and Poems), 
 
 IN ACKNOWLEDGEMENT OF MANY FAVOURS 
 RECEIVED AT HIS HANDS. 
 
 J. D. R.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Burns, 
 
 Ode on the Centenary of Burns, 
 
 On the Death of Burns, 
 
 Robert Burns, ... 
 
 Ode to the Memory of Burns, 
 
 The Gift of Burns, 
 
 For the Burns CbNTENNiAL Celebration, 
 
 Jan. 25, 1859, 
 Burns, ... 
 
 An Incident in a Railroad Car, 
 Thoughts, 
 
 To the Sons of Burns, 
 mossgiel, 
 
 Burns at Mossgiel, 
 Robert Burns, ... 
 
 For the Centenary of Robert Burns, 
 Address to the Shade of Burns, 
 Robert Burns, 
 
 Rantin' Robin, Rhymin' Robin, ... 
 Ellisland, ... 
 Burns' Birthday, 
 Lines, 
 Burns, ... 
 
 Page 
 9 
 16 
 21 
 26 
 29 
 33 
 
 37 
 40 
 46 
 SO 
 
 53 
 56 
 
 57 
 61 
 
 64 
 67 
 
 71 
 
 76 
 
 78 
 81 
 86 
 88
 
 S (JOlSTliNTh. 
 
 Robin's Awa' ! ... ... .. ... 91 
 
 Ode. ... ... ... ... ... 93 
 
 Robert Burns, ... ... .. ... 97 
 
 The Baku of Song, ... ... ... 105 
 
 Ode, ... ... .. ... ... 108 
 
 Verses, ... ... ... ... ... m 
 
 Coila's Bard, ... ... ... ... 113 
 
 Elegy to the Memory of Robert Burns, 116 
 
 What is Success? ... ... ... ... 125 
 
 Burns, ... ... ... ... ... 131 
 
 The Birthplace of Robert Burns, "... ... 132 
 
 A Poet King, ... ... ... ... 133 
 
 Rantin' Robin, ... ... ... ... 135 
 
 To the Memory of Burns, ... ... 137 
 
 Address to Burns, ... ... ... ... 139 
 
 To THE Memory of Robert Burns, ... 145 
 
 Robert Burns, ... ... ... ... 149 
 
 On the Death of Burns, ... ... 151 
 
 Stanzas, ... ... ... ... ... 155 
 
 Written for Burns' Anniversary, ... 157 
 
 Thoughts, ... ... ... ... ... 159 
 
 Song, ... ... ... ... ... 162 
 
 Robert Burns, ... ... ... ... 164 
 
 Birth-Place of Robert Burns, .. ... 165 
 
 To the Memory of Robert Burns, ... ... 167 
 
 Ye may Talk o' Your Learning, ... 170 
 
 The Night you quoted Burns to me, ... 172 
 
 Birth of Burns, ... .. ... 174 
 
 An Evening with Burns, ... ... ... 180
 
 ROUND BURNS' GRAVE. 
 
 513 urns. 
 
 Fitz-Greene IIalleck. 
 
 To a KosCf brought from near Allozvay Kirk, in Ayrshire, 
 in the Autumn of 1822. 
 
 Wild Rose of AUoway ! my thanks : 
 Thou 'mindst me of that autumn noon 
 
 When fust we met upon " the banks 
 And braes o' bonny Doon." 
 
 Like thine, beneath the thorn-tree's bough, 
 My sunny hour was glad and brief ; 
 
 We've crossed the winter sea, and thou 
 Art withered — flower and leaf. 
 
 Aud will not thy death-doom be mine — 
 The doom of all things wrought of clay 
 
 And withered my life's leaf like thine, 
 Wild Rose of Alloway?
 
 lO BURNS. 
 
 Not so his memory, for whose sake 
 My bosom bore thee far and long ; 
 
 His— who a humbler flower could make 
 Immortal as his song. 
 
 The memory of Burns ! -a name 
 
 That calls, when brimmed her festal cup, 
 
 A nation's glory and her shame, 
 In silent sadness up. 
 
 A nation's glory ! — be the rest 
 
 Forgot — she's canonized his mind ; 
 
 And it is joy to speak the best 
 We may of human kind. 
 
 I've stood beside the cottage bed 
 
 Where the Bard-peasant first drew breath 
 A straw-thatched roof above his head, 
 
 A straw-wrought couch beneath. 
 
 And I have stood beside the pile, 1 
 
 His monument — that tells to Heaven ] 
 
 The homage of earth's proudest isle i 
 To that Bard-peasant given ! 
 
 Bid thy thoughts hover o'er that spot, 
 Boy-minstrel, in thy dreaming hour 
 
 And know, however low his lot, 
 A Poet's pride and power.
 
 BURNS. II 
 
 The pride that lifted Burns from earth, — 
 
 The power that gave a child of song 
 Ascendency o'er rank and birth, 
 
 The rich, the brave, the strong ; 
 
 And if despondency weigh down 
 Thy spirit's fluttering pinions then, 
 
 Despair — thy name is written on 
 The roll of common men. 
 
 There have been loftier themes than his, 
 And longer scrolls, and louder lyres, 
 
 And lays lit up with Poesy's 
 Purer and holier fires : 
 
 Yet read the names that know not death ; 
 
 Few nobler ones than Burns are there ; 
 And few have won a greener wreath 
 
 Than that which binds his hair. 
 
 His is that language of the heart. 
 
 In which the answering heart would speak, - 
 Thought, word, that bids the warm tear start, 
 
 Or the smile light the cheek ; 
 
 And his that music, to whose tone 
 
 The common pulse of man keeps time. 
 
 In cot or castle's mirth or moan. 
 In cold or sunny clime.
 
 12 BURNS. 
 
 And who hath heard his song, nor knelt 
 Before its spell with willing knee, 
 
 And listened, and believed, and felt 
 The Poet's mastery. 
 
 O'er the Mind's sea, in calm or storm, 
 O'er the Heart's sunshine and its showers, 
 
 O'er Passion's moments, bright and warm. 
 O'er Reason's dark, cold hours ; 
 
 On fields where brave men " die or do," 
 In halls where rings the banquet's mirth. 
 
 Where mourners weep, where lovers woo, 
 From throne to cottage hearth ? 
 
 What sweet tears dim the eyes unshed. 
 What wild vows falter on the tongue, 
 
 When " Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled," 
 Or " Auld Lang Syne " is sung ! 
 
 Pure hopes, that lift the soul above, 
 Come with his Cottar's hymn of praise. 
 
 And dreams of youth, and truth, and love, 
 With " Logan's " banks and braes. 
 
 And when he breathes his master-lay 
 Of Alloway's witch-haunted wall. 
 
 All passions in our frames of clay 
 Come thronging at his call.
 
 BURNS. 13 
 
 Imagination's world of air, 
 
 And our own world, its gloom and glee, 
 Wit, pathos, poetry, are there. 
 
 And death's sublimity. 
 
 And Burns — though brief the race he ran. 
 Though rough and dark the path he trod- 
 
 Lived — died — in form and soul a Man, — 
 The image of his God. 
 
 Through care, and pain, and want and woe, 
 With wounds that only death could heal ; 
 
 Tortures — the poor alone can know, 
 The proud alone can feel ; 
 
 He kept his honesty and truth. 
 His independent tongue and pen. 
 
 And moved, in manhood as in youth, 
 Pride of his fellow men. 
 
 Strong 9ense, deep feeling, passions strong, 
 A hate of tyrant and of knave ; 
 
 A love of right, a scorn of wrong, 
 Of coward and of slave ; 
 
 A kind, true heart, a spirit high, 
 
 That could not fear and would not bow. 
 
 Were written in his manly eye 
 And on his manly brow.
 
 14 BURNS. 
 
 Praise to the bard ! his words are driven, 
 Like flower-seeds by the far wind sown, 
 
 Where'er, beneath the sky of heaven, 
 The birds of fame have flown. 
 
 Praise to the man ! a nation stood 
 Beside his coffin with wet eyes, — 
 
 Her brave, her beautiful, her good, 
 As when a loved one dies. 
 
 And still, as on his funeral day, 
 
 Men stand his cold earth-couch around, 
 
 With the mute homage that we pay 
 To consecrated ground. 
 
 And consecrated ground it is, — 
 The last, the hallowed home of one 
 
 Who lives upon all memories, 
 Though with the buried gone. 
 
 Such graves as his are pilgrim-shrines, - 
 Shrines to no code or creed confined- 
 
 The Delphian vales, the Palestines, 
 The Meccas of the mind. 
 
 Sages, with wisdom's garland wreathed, 
 Crowned kings, and mitred priests of power, 
 
 And warriors with their bright swords sheathed. 
 The mightiest of the hour ;
 
 BURNS. 15 
 
 And lowlier names, whose humble home 
 
 Is lit by Fortune's dimmer star, 
 Are there — o'er wave and mountain come, 
 
 From countries near and far ; 
 
 Pilgrims whose wandering feet have pressed 
 The Switzer's snow, the Arab's sand, 
 
 Or trod the piled leaves of the West, — 
 My own green forest-land. 
 
 All ask the cottage of his birth. 
 
 Gaze on the scenes he loved and sung, 
 
 And gather feelings not of earth 
 His fields and streams among. 
 
 They linger by the Boon's low trees, 
 And pastoral Nith, and wooded Ayr, 
 
 And round thy sepulchres, Dumfries ! 
 The poet's tomb is there. 
 
 But what to them the sculptor's art. 
 
 His funeral columns, wreaths, and urns? 
 
 Were they not graven on the heart — 
 The name of Robert Burns !
 
 (Dbe oil the Centeimi-g of ^unis. 
 
 Isabella Craig Knox. 
 
 We hail this morn, 
 A century's noblest birth ; 
 
 A poet peasant-born, 
 Who more of Fame's immortal dower 
 
 Unto his country brings 
 
 Than all her kings ! 
 
 As lamps high set 
 Upon some earthly eminence ; 
 And to the gazer brighter thence 
 Than the sphere lights they flout — 
 
 Dwindle in distance and die out, 
 
 While no star waneth yet ; 
 So through the past's far-reaching night 
 
 Only the star-souls keep their light. 
 
 A gentle boy. 
 With moods of sadness and of mirth, 
 
 Quick tears and sudden joy. 
 Grew up beside the peasant's hearth. 
 
 His father's toil he shares ; 
 
 But half his mother's cares 
 
 From his dark, searching eyes, 
 Too swift to sympathise, 
 
 Hid in her heart she bears.
 
 CENTENARY ODE. 17 
 
 At early morn 1 
 
 His father calls him to the field ; j 
 
 Through the stiff soil that clogs his feet, ■' 
 
 Chill rain, and harvest heat 
 
 He plods all day ; returns at eve outworn, j 
 
 To the rude fare a peasant's lot doth yield — i 
 
 To what else was he born ? \ 
 
 The God-made king 
 
 Of every living thing ; 
 (For his great heart in love could hold them all) ; 
 The dumb eyes meeting his by hearth and stall — 
 
 Gifted to understand ! — 
 
 Knew it and sought his hand ; 
 And the most timorous creature had not fled 
 
 Could she his heart have read, 
 Which fain all feeble thinsrs had blessed and sheltered. 
 
 To Nature's feast. 
 Who knew her noblest guest 
 And entertained him best, 
 Kingly he came. Her chambers of the east 
 She draped with crimson and with gold, 
 And poured her pure joy wines 
 For him the poet-souled ; 
 For him her anthem rolled 
 From the storm-wind among the winter pines, 
 
 Down to the slenderest note 
 Of a love-warble from the linnet's throat. 
 
 But when begins 
 The array for battle, and the trumpet blows,
 
 i8 CENTENARY ODE. 
 
 A king must leave the feast and lead the fight ; 
 
 And with its mortal foes, 
 Grim gathering hosts of sorrows and of sins, 
 
 Each human soul must close ; 
 
 And Fame her trumpet blew 
 Before him, wrapped him in her purple state, 
 And made him mark for all the shafts of Fate 
 
 That henceforth round him flew. 
 
 Though he may yield, 
 Hard-pressed, and wounded fall 
 
 Forsaken on the field ; 
 
 His regal vestments soiled ; 
 
 His crown of half its jewels spoiled ; 
 He is a king for all. 
 
 Had he but stood aloof ! 
 Had he arrayed himself in armour proof 
 
 Against temptation's darts ! 
 So yearn the good — so those the world calls wise, 
 
 With vain, presumptuous hearts. 
 Triumphant moralise. 
 
 Of martyr-woe 
 A sacred shadow on his memory rests — 
 
 Tears have not ceased to flow — 
 Indignant grief yet stirs impetuous breasts, 
 
 To think — above that noble soul brought low, 
 That wise and soaring spirit fooled, enslaved — 
 
 Thus, thus he had been saved ! 
 
 It might not be ! 
 That heart of harmony 
 Had been too rudely rent ;
 
 CENTENARY ODE. 19 1 
 
 i 
 
 Its silver chords, which any hand could wound, j 
 
 By no hand could be tuned, \ 
 
 Save by the Maker of the instrument, 'j 
 Its every string who knew. 
 
 And from profaning touch His heavenly gift withdrew. 
 
 1 
 
 Regretful love 
 
 His country fain would prove. 
 By grateful honours lavished on his grave ; 
 
 Would fain redeem her blame j 
 
 That he so little at her hands can claim, 1; 
 
 Who unrewarded gave j 
 
 To her his life-bought gift of song and fame. •! 
 
 The land he trod ■ 
 
 Hath now become a place of pilgrimage ; i 
 
 Where dearer are the daisies of the sod '. 
 
 That could his song engage. ', 
 
 The hoary hawthorn, wreathed ■► 
 Above the bank on which his limbs he flung 
 
 While some sweet plaint he breathed ; ' 
 
 The streams he wandered near ; ; 
 
 The maidens whom he loved ; the songs he sung — \ 
 
 All — all are dear ! i 
 
 The arch blue eyes — 
 
 Arch but for love's disguise — 
 Of Scotland's daughters, soften at his strain ; 
 Her hardy sons, sent forth across the main 
 To drive the ploughshare through earth's virgin soils, 
 
 Lighten with it their toils ; 
 And sister-lands have learn'd to love the tongue 
 
 In which such songs are sung.
 
 20 CENTENARY ODE. 
 
 For doth not song 
 
 To the whole world belong ? 
 Is it not given wherever tears can fall, 
 Wherever hearts can melt, or blushes glow, 
 Or mirth and sadness mingle as they flow, 
 
 A heritage to all ?
 
 ©It the BtM ot 58iu*n0. 
 
 William Roscoe. 
 
 Rear high thy bleak majestic hills, 
 
 Thy sheltered valleys proudly spread, 
 And, Scotia, pour thy thousand rills, 
 
 And wave thy heaths with blossoms red. 
 But ah ! what poet now shall tread 
 
 Thy airy heights, thy woodland reign, 
 Since he, the sweetest bard, is dead, 
 Since he, the sweetest bard, is dead, 
 
 That ever breath'd the soothing strain ! 
 
 As green thy towering pines may grow, 
 
 As clear thy streams may speed along, 
 As bright thy summer suns may glow. 
 
 As gaily charm thy feathery throng ; 
 But now, unheeded is the song. 
 
 And dull and lifeless all around, 
 For his wild harp lies all unstrung, 
 
 And cold the hand that waked its sound. 
 
 What the' thy vigorous oflfspring rise 
 In arts, in arms, thy sons excel ; 
 
 Tho' beauty in thy daughters' eyes. 
 And health in every feature dwell ;
 
 22 ON THE DEATH OF BURNS. 
 
 Yet who shall now their praises tell, 
 In strains impassion'd, fond and free, 
 
 Since he no more the song shall swell 
 To love, and liberty, and thee. 
 
 With step-dame eye and frown severe 
 
 His hapless youth why didst thou view ? 
 For all thy joys to him were dear, 
 
 And all his vort's to thee were due ; 
 Nor greater bliss his bosom knew, 
 
 In opening youth's delightful prime, 
 Than when thy favouring ear he drew 
 
 To listen to his chanted rhyme. 
 
 Thy lonely wastes and frowning skies 
 
 To him where all with rapture fraught ; 
 He heard with joy the tempest rise 
 
 That waked him to sublimer thought ; 
 And oft thy winding dells he sought, 
 
 Where wild flow'rs pour'd their rich perfume, 
 And with sincere devotion brought 
 
 To thee the summer's earliest bloom. 
 
 But ah ! no fond maternal smile 
 
 His unprotected youth enjoy'd. 
 His limbs inur'd to early toil. 
 
 His days with early hardships tried 
 And more to mark the gloomy void, 
 
 And bid him feel his misery. 
 Before his infant eyes would glide 
 
 Day dreams of immortality.
 
 ON THE DEATH OF BURNS. 23 
 
 Yet, not by cold neglect depress'd, 
 
 With sinewy arm he turn'd the soil. 
 Sunk with the evening sun to rest, 
 
 And met at morn his earliest smile. 
 Waked by his rustic pipe, meanwhile 
 
 The powers of fancy came along, 
 And sooth'd his lengthen'd hours of toil, 
 
 With native wit and sprightly song. 
 
 — ^Ah ! days of bliss, too swiftly fled. 
 
 When vigorous health from labour springs, 
 And bland contentment smoothes the bed, 
 
 And sleep his ready opiate brings ; 
 And hovering round on airy wings 
 
 Float the light forms of young desire, 
 That of unutterable things 
 
 The soft and shadowy hope inspire. 
 
 Now spells of mightier power prepare. 
 
 Bid brighter phantoms round him dance ; 
 Let Flattery spread her viewless snare. 
 
 And Fame attract his vagrant glance ; 
 Let sprightly Pleasure too advance, 
 
 Unveil'd her eyes, unclasp'd her zone, 
 Till, lost in love's delirious trance, 
 
 He scorns the joys his youth has known. 
 
 Let Friendship pour her brightest blaze. 
 Expanding all the bloom of soul ; 
 
 And Mirth concentre all her rays. 
 
 Ami i)oint them from the sparkling bowl ;
 
 24 ON THE DEATH OF BURNS. 
 
 And let the careless moments roll 
 In social pleasure unconfined, 
 
 And confidence that spurns control 
 Unlock the inmost springs of mind : 
 
 And lead his steps those bowers among, 
 
 Where elegance with splendour vies, 
 Or Science bids her favour'd throng, 
 
 To more refined sensations rise : 
 Beyond the peasant's humbler joys, 
 
 And freed from each laborious strife, 
 There let him learn the bliss to prize 
 
 That waits the sons of polish'd life. 
 
 Then whilst his throbbing veins beat high 
 
 With every impulse of delight, 
 Dash from his lips the cup of joy. 
 
 And shroud the scene in shades of night ; 
 And let Despair, with wizard light. 
 
 Disclose the yawning gulf below, 
 And pour incessant on his sight 
 
 Her spectred ills and shapes of woe : 
 
 And show beneath a cheerless shed. 
 
 With sorrowing heart and streaming eyes, 
 In silent grief where droops her head, 
 
 The partner of his early joys ; 
 And let his infants' tender cries 
 
 His fond parental succour claim, 
 And bid him hear in agonies 
 
 A husband's and a father's name.
 
 ON THE DEATH OF BURNS. 25 
 
 'Tis done, the powerful charm succeeds ; 
 
 His high reluctant spirit bends ; 
 In bitterness of soul he bleeds, 
 
 Nor longer with his fate contends. 
 An idiot laugh the welkin rends 
 
 As genius thus degraded lies ; 
 Till pitying Heaven the veil extends 
 
 That shrouds the Poet's ardent eyes. 
 
 — Rear high thy bleak majestic hills. 
 
 Thy sheltered valleys proudly spread. 
 And Scotia, pour thy thousand rills, 
 
 And wave thy heaths with blossoms red : 
 But never more shall poet tread 
 
 Thy airy height, thy woodland reign. 
 Since he, the sweetest bard, is dead, 
 
 That ever breath'd the soothing strain.
 
 26 
 
 Eobcrt i^xxvws. 
 
 & 
 
 Henry W. Longfellow. 
 
 I SEE amid the fields of Ayr 
 
 A ploughman, who, in foul and fair, 
 
 Sings at his task 
 So clear, we know not if it is 
 The laverock's song we hear, or his, 
 
 Nor care to ask. 
 
 For him the ploughing of those fields 
 A more ethereal harvest yields 
 
 Than sheaves of grain ; 
 Songs flush with purple bloom the rye, 
 The plover's call, the curlew's cry 
 
 Sing in his brain. 
 
 Touched by his hand, the wayside weed 
 Becomes a flower ; the lowliest reed 
 
 Beside the stream 
 Is clothed in beauty ; gorse and grass 
 And heather, where his footsteps pass, 
 
 The brighter seem.
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 27 
 
 He sings of love, whose flame illumes 
 The darkness of lone cottage rooms ; 
 
 He feels the lorce, 
 The treacherous undertow and stress 
 Of wayward passions, and no less 
 
 The keen remorse. 
 
 At moments, wrestling with his fate, 
 His voice is harsh, but not with hate ; 
 
 The brushwood, hung 
 Above the tavern door, lets fall 
 Its bitter leaf, its drop of gall 
 
 Upon his tongue. 
 
 But still the music of his song 
 Rises o'er all elate and stron" ; 
 
 Its master-chords 
 Are Manhood, Freedom, Brotherhood j 
 Its discords but an interlude 
 
 Between the words. 
 
 And then to die so young and leave 
 Unfinished what he might achieve ! 
 
 Yet better sure 
 Is this, than wandering up and down 
 An old man in a country town, 
 
 Infirm and poor. 
 
 For now he haunts his native land 
 As an immortal youth ; his hand 
 Guides every plough ;
 
 28 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 He sits beside each ingle-nook, 
 His voice is in each rushing brook, 
 Each rusthng bough. 
 
 His presence haunts this room to-night, 
 A form of mingled mist and light 
 
 From that far coast. 
 Welcome beneath this roof of mine ! 
 Welcome ! this vacant chair is thine. 
 
 Dear guest and ghost !
 
 29 
 
 (DDc to the JHcmort) of ^Gmus. 
 
 Thomas Campbell, 
 
 Soul of the Poet ! wheresoe'er 
 Reclaim'd from earth, thy genius plume 
 Her wings of immortality ! 
 Suspend thy harp in happier sphere, 
 And w'hh thy influence illume 
 The gladness of our jubilee. 
 
 And fly like fiends from secret spell, 
 Discord and strife, at BuRNS's name, 
 Exorcised by his memory ? 
 For he was chief of bards that swell 
 The heart with songs of social flame, 
 And high delicious revelry. 
 
 And Love's own strain to him was given. 
 
 To warble all its ecstasies 
 
 With Pythian words unsought, unwill'd, — 
 
 Love, the surviving gift of Heaven, 
 
 The choicest sweet of Paradise, 
 
 In life's else bitter cup distill'd.
 
 30 ODE TO THE MEMORY OF BURNS. 
 
 Who that has melted o'er his lay 
 To Mary's soul, in Heaven above. 
 But pictured sees, in fancy strong, 
 The landscape and the livelong day 
 That smiled upon t4ieir mutual love ? 
 Who that has felt forgets the song ? 
 
 Nor skill'd one flame alone to fan ; 
 His country's high soul'd peasantry 
 What patriot pride he taught ! — how much 
 To weigh the inborn worth of man ! 
 And rustic life and poverty 
 Grow beautiful beneath his touch. 
 
 Him, in his clay-built cot, the Muse 
 Entranced, and showed him all the forms 
 Of fairy-light and wizard gloom, 
 (That only gifted poet views) 
 The Genii of the floods and storms, 
 And martial shades from Glory's tomb. 
 
 On Bannock-field, what thoughts arouse 
 
 The swain whom Burns's song inspires ; 
 
 Beat not his Caledonian veins. 
 
 As o'er the heroic turf he ploughs, 
 
 With all the spirit of his sires. 
 
 And all their scorn of death and chains ? 
 
 And see the Scottish exile, tann'd 
 By many a far and foreign clime,
 
 ODE TO THE MEMORY OF BURNS. 31 
 
 Bend o'er his home-born verse, and weep 
 In memory of his native land, 
 ^Yith love that scorns the lapse of time. 
 And ties that stretch beyond the deep. 
 
 Encamp'd by Indian rivers wild. 
 
 The soldier resting on his arms, 
 
 In BuRNS's carol sweet recals 
 
 The scenes that bless'd liim when a child, 
 
 And glows and gladdens at the charms 
 
 Of Scotia's woods and waterfalls. 
 
 O deem not, 'midst the worldly strife. 
 An idle art the Poet brings : 
 Let high Philosophy control. 
 And sages calm, the stream of life, 
 'Tis he refines its fountain-springs, — 
 The nobler passions of the soul. 
 
 It is the Muse that consecrates 
 The native banner of the brave, 
 Unfurling, at the trumpet's breath. 
 Rose, thistle, harp ; 'tis she elates 
 To sweep the field or ride the wave, — 
 A sunburst in the storm of death. 
 
 And thou, young hero, when thy pall 
 
 Is cross'd with mournful sword and plume, 
 
 When public grief begins to fade. 
 
 And only tears of kindred fall. 
 
 Who but the bard shall dress thy tomb, 
 
 And greet with fame thy gallant shade ?
 
 32 ODE TO THE MEMORY OF BURNS. 
 
 Such was the soldier — Burns, forgive 
 That sorrows of mine own intrude 
 In strains to thy great memory due. 
 In verse Hke thine, oh ! could he live, 
 The friend I mourn'd — the brave — the good- 
 Edward that died at Waterloo ! * 
 
 Farewell, high chief of Scottish song ! 
 That couldst alternately impart 
 Wisdom and rapture in thy page. 
 And brand each vice with satire strong ; 
 Whose lines are mottoes of the heart — 
 Whose truths electrify the sage. 
 
 Farewell ! and ne'er may Envy dare 
 To wring one baleful poison drop 
 From the crush'd laurels of thy bust : 
 But while the lark sings sweet in air, 
 Still may the grateful pilgrim stop, 
 To bless the spot that holds thy dust. 
 
 ■* Major Edward Hodge, of the yth Hussars, who fell at the head of 
 his squadron in the attack of the Polish Lancers.
 
 33 
 
 ^he ^ift of $3111110. 
 
 Robert Buchanan. 
 
 Addressed to the Boston Caledonian Club on the one hundrea 
 and twenty-sixth anniversary of the Birth of the 
 National Poet. 
 
 That speech the English Pilgrims spoke 
 
 Fills the great plains afar, 
 And branches of the British \^&le, 0'^^ 
 
 Wave 'neith the Western star ; 
 Be free ! " men cried, in Shakespeare's tongue, 
 
 When striking for the slave — 
 Thus Hampden's cry for Freedom rung 
 
 As far as Lincoln's grave ! 
 
 ir. 
 
 But when new vales of England rise. 
 The thistle freeiier blows ; 
 
 Across the seas 'neath alien skies 
 Another Scotland grows ; 
 
 Here Independence, mountain maid, 
 Reaps her full birthright now,
 
 34 THE GIFT OF BURNS. 
 
 And BuRNs's shade, in trews and plaid, 
 Still whistles at the plough. 
 
 in, 
 
 Scots, gather'd now in phalanx bright. 
 
 Here in this distant land. 
 To greet you, this immortal night, 
 
 I reach the loving hand ; 
 My soul is with you, one and all. 
 
 Who pledge our poet's fame, 
 And echoing your toast, I call 
 
 A blessing on his name ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 The heritage he left behind 
 
 Has spread from sea to sea — 
 The liberal heart, the fearless mind, 
 
 The undaunted soul and free ; 
 The radiant humour that redeem'd 
 
 A world of commonplace ; 
 The wit that like a sword-flash gleam'd 
 
 In Fashion's painted face ; 
 
 V. 
 
 The brotherhood where smiles and tears, 
 
 Too deep for thought to scan, 
 Have made of all us mountaineers 
 
 One world-compelling clan ! 
 Hand join with hand. Soul links with soul 
 
 Where'er we sit and sing, 
 Flashing, from utmost pole to pole, 
 
 Love's bright electric ring !
 
 THE GIFT OF BURNS. 35 
 
 VI. 
 
 The songs he sang were sown as seeds 
 
 Sown in the furrow'd earth — 
 They ripen into dauntless deeds, 
 
 And flowers of gentle mirth ; 
 They brighten every path we tread, 
 
 They conquer time and place ; 
 While l)lue skies, opening overhead, 
 
 Reveali — the singer's face ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 He struggled, agonized, and fell 
 
 As all who live have thriven. 
 But with his wit he conquer'd Hell, 
 
 And with his love show'd Heaven ! 
 He was the noblest of us all. 
 
 Yet of us all a part, 
 For every Scot, howe'er so small, 
 
 Is high as BuRNs's heart ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Immortal is the night, indeed, 
 
 When he this life began — 
 The open-handed, stubborn-kne'd, 
 
 Type of the mountain clan ! 
 The shape erect that never knelt 
 
 To Kings of earth or air. 
 But at a maiden's touch would melt. 
 
 And tremble into prayer !
 
 36 THE GIFT OF BURNS. 
 
 IX. 
 
 His soul pursues us where we roam, 
 
 Eeyond the farthest waves, 
 He sheds the light of love and home 
 
 Upon our loneliest graves ! 
 Poor is the slave that honours not 
 
 The flag he first unfurl'd — 
 Our singer, who has made the Scot 
 
 The freeman of the world !
 
 Jor the ^urns QTcutcnnial €;clebmtton, 
 Janu.u'i) 25, 1859. 
 
 Oliver Wendell Holmes. 
 
 His birthday. — Nay, we need not speak 
 The name each heart is beating, — 
 
 Each glistening eye and flushing cheek 
 In light and flame repeating ! 
 
 We come in our tumultuous tide, — 
 One surge of wild emotion, — 
 
 As crowding through the Frith of Clyde 
 Rolls in the Western Ocean ; 
 
 As when yon cloudless, quartered moon 
 Hangs o'er each storied river. 
 
 The swelling breasts of Ayr and Doon 
 With sea-green wavelets quiver. 
 
 The century shrivels like a scroll, — 
 The past becomes the present,— 
 
 And face to face, and soul to soul, 
 We greet the monarch-peasant.
 
 38 BURNS'S CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION 
 
 While Shenstone strained in feeble flights 
 
 With Corydon and Phyllis, — • 
 While Wolfe was climbing Abraham's heights 
 
 To snatch the Bourbon lilies, — • 
 
 Who heard the wailing infant's cry. 
 The babe beneath the shelling. 
 
 Whose song to-night in every sky 
 Will shake earth's starry ceiling,— 
 
 Whose passion-breathing voice ascends 
 And floats like incense o'er us, 
 
 Whose ringing lay of friendship blends 
 With labour's anvil chorus ? 
 
 We love him, not for sweetest song. 
 Though never tone so tender ; 
 
 We love him, even in his wrong, — 
 His wasteful self-surrender. 
 
 We praise him, not for gifts divine, — 
 His Muse was born of woman, — 
 
 His manhood breathes in every line, — ■ 
 Was ever heart more human ? 
 
 We love him, praise him, just for this : 
 
 In every form and feature, 
 Through wealth and want, through woe and bliss, 
 
 He saw his fellow-creature !
 
 BURNS'S CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION. 39 
 
 No soul could sink beneath his love, — 
 
 Not even angel blasted ; 
 No mortal power could soar above 
 
 The pride that all outlasted ! 
 
 Ay ! Heaven had set one living man 
 
 Beyond the pedant's tether, — 
 His virtues, frailties. He may scan, 
 
 Who weighs them all together ! 
 
 I fling my pebble on the cairn 
 
 Of him, though dead, undying ; 
 Sweet Nature's nursling, bonniest bairn 
 
 Beneath her daisies lying. 
 
 The waning suns, the wasting globe. 
 
 Shall spare the minstrel's story, — 
 The centuries weave his purple robe, 
 
 The mountain-mist of glory !
 
 40 
 
 On receiving a sprig of heather in blossom. 
 
 John G. Whittier. 
 
 No more these simple flowers belong 
 
 To Scottish maid and lover ; 
 Sown in the common soil of song, 
 
 They bloom the wide world over. 
 
 In smile and tears, in sun and showers, 
 The minstrel and the heather. 
 
 The deathless singer and the flowers 
 He sang of live together. 
 
 Wild heather-bells and Robert Burns ! 
 
 The moorland flower and peasant ! 
 How, at their mention, memory turns 
 
 Her pages old and pleasant ! 
 
 The gray sky wears again its gold 
 
 And purple of adorning, 
 And manhood's noonday shadows hold 
 
 The dews of boyhood's morning.
 
 BURNS. 41 
 
 The dews that washed the dust and soil 
 From off the wings of pleasure, 
 
 The sky, that flecked the ground of toil 
 With golden threads of leisure. 
 
 I call to mind the summer day, 
 The early harvest mowing. 
 
 The sky with sun and clouds at play, 
 And flowers with breezes blowing. 
 
 I hear the blackbird in the corn, 
 The locust in the haying ; 
 
 And, like the fabled hunter's horn, 
 Old tunes my heart is playing. 
 
 How oft that day, with fond delay, 
 I sought the maple's shadow. 
 
 And sang with Burns the hours away. 
 Forgetful of the meadow ! 
 
 Bees hummed, birds twittered, overhead 
 I heard the squirrels leaping. 
 
 The good dog listened while I read. 
 And wagged his tail in keeping. 
 
 I watched him while in sportive mood, 
 I read " The Twa Dogs' " story. 
 
 And half believed he understood 
 The poet's allegory. 
 
 3
 
 42 BURNS. 
 
 Sweet days, sweet songs ! — The golden hours 
 Grew brighter for that singing, 
 
 From brook and bird and meadow flowers 
 A dearer welcome bringing. 
 
 New light on home-seen nature beamed, 
 
 New glory over Woman ; 
 And daily life and duty seemed 
 
 No longer poor and common. 
 
 I woke to find the simple truth 
 
 Of fact and feeling better 
 Than all the dreams that held my youth 
 
 A still repining debtor : 
 
 That Nature gives her handmaid, Art, 
 The theme of sweet discoursing ; 
 
 The tender idylls of the heart 
 In every tongue rehearsing. 
 
 Why dream of lands of gold and pearl, 
 
 Of loving knight and lady. 
 When farmer boy and barefoot girl 
 
 Were wandering there already ? 
 
 I saw through all familiar things 
 
 The romance underlying ; 
 The joys and griefs that plume the wings 
 
 Of Fancy skyward flying.
 
 BURNS. 43 
 
 I saw the same blithe day return, 
 The same sweet fall of even, 
 
 That rose on wooded Craigie-burn, 
 And sank on crystal Devon. 
 
 I matched with Scotland's heathery hills 
 The sweet-brier and the clover ; 
 
 With Ayr and Doon, my native rills, 
 Their wood-hymns chanting over. 
 
 O'er rank and pomp, as he had seen, 
 
 I saw the Man uprising ; 
 No longer common or unclean, 
 
 The child of God's baptizing ! 
 
 With clearer eyes I saw the worth 
 Of life among the lowly ; 
 
 The Bible at his Cotter's hearth 
 Had made my own more holy. 
 
 And, if at times an evil strain, 
 To lawless love appcalinij', 
 
 Broke in upon the sweet refrain 
 Of pure and healthful feeling. 
 
 It died upon the eye and ear, 
 No inward answer gaining ; 
 
 No heart had 1 to see or hear 
 The discord and the staining.
 
 44 BURNS. 
 
 Let those who never erred forget 
 His worth, in vain bewailings ; 
 
 Sweet Soul of Song ! — I own my debt 
 Uncancelled by his failings ! 
 
 Lament who will the ribald line 
 Which tells his lapse from duty, 
 
 How kissed the maddening lips of wine 
 Or wanton ones of beauty ; 
 
 But think, while falls that shade between 
 
 The erring one and Heaven, 
 That he who loved like Magdalen, 
 
 Like her may be forgiven. 
 
 Not his the song whose thunderous chime 
 
 Eternal echoes render — 
 The mournful Tuscan's haunted rhyme, 
 
 And Milton's starry splendour ! 
 
 But who his human heart has laid 
 To Nature's bosom nearer ? 
 
 "Who sweetened toil like him, or paid 
 To love a tribute dearer ? 
 
 Through all his tuneful art, how strong 
 The human feeling gushes ! 
 
 The very moonlight of his song 
 Is warm with smiles and blushes !
 
 BURNS. 45 
 
 Give lettered pomp to teeth of Time, 
 So " Bonnie Doon " but tarry ; 
 
 Blot out the Epic's stately rhyme, 
 But spare his Highland Mary !
 
 46 
 
 M Inribeitt in jt fv^ilroab Car. 
 
 James Russell Lowell. 
 
 He spoke of Burns : men rude and rough 
 Pressed round to hear the praise of one 
 
 Whose heart was made of manly, simple stuff, 
 As homespun as their own. 
 
 And when he read, they forward leaned, 
 Drinking with thirsty hearts and ears, 
 
 His brook-like songs whom glory never weaned 
 P^rom humble smiles and tears. 
 
 Slowly there grew a tender awe, 
 
 Sun-like, o'er faces brown and hard, 
 
 As if in him who read they felt and saw 
 Some presence of the bard. 
 
 It was a sight for sin and wrong 
 
 And slavish tyranny to see, — 
 A sight to make our faith more pure and strong 
 
 In high humanity.
 
 AN INCIDENT IN A RAILWAY CAR. 47 
 
 I thought these men will carry hence 
 
 Promptings their former life above, 
 And something of a finer reverence 
 
 For beauty, truth, and love. 
 
 God scatters love on every side. 
 Freely among his children all. 
 
 And always hearts are lying open wide, 
 Wherein some grains may fall. 
 
 There is no wind but soweth seeds 
 
 Of a more true and open life. 
 Which burst, unlooked-for, into high-souled deeds, 
 
 With wayside beauty rife. 
 
 We find within these souls of ours 
 Some wild germs of a higher birth. 
 
 Which in the poet's tropic heart bear flowers 
 Whose fragrance fills the earth. 
 
 Within the hearts of all men lie 
 These promises of wider bliss. 
 
 Which blossom into hopes that cannot die, 
 In sunny hours like this. 
 
 All that hath been majestical 
 
 In life or death, since time began, 
 
 Is native in the simple heart of all,-- 
 The angel heart of man.
 
 48 AN INCIDENT IN A RAILWAY CAR. 
 
 And thus, among the untaught poor, 
 Great deeds and feelings find a home, 
 
 That cast in shadow all the golden lore 
 Of classic Greece and Rome. 
 
 O, mighty brother-soul of man, 
 Where'er thou art, in low or high, 
 
 Thy skiey arches with exulting span 
 O'er — roof infinity ! 
 
 All thoughts that mould the age begin 
 Deep down within the primitive soul, 
 
 And from the many slowly upward win 
 To one «-ho grasps the whole : 
 
 In his wide brain the feeling deep 
 That struggled on the many's tongue 
 
 Swells to a tide of thought, whose surges leap 
 O'er the weak thrones of wrong. 
 
 All thought begins in feeling, — wide 
 
 In the great mass its base is hid. 
 And, narrowing up to thought, stands glorified, 
 
 A moveless pyramid. 
 
 Nor is he far astray who deems 
 
 That every hope, which rises and grows broad 
 In the world's heart, by ordered impulse streams 
 
 From the great heart of God.
 
 49 AN INCIDENT IN A RAILWAY CAR. 
 
 God wills, man hopes : in common souls 
 Hope is but vague and undefined, 
 
 Till from the poet's tongue the message rolls 
 A blessing to his kind . 
 
 Never did Poesy appear 
 
 So full of heaven to me, as when 
 I saw how it would pierce through pride and fear 
 
 To the lives of coarsest men. 
 
 It may be glorious to write 
 
 Thoughts that shall glad the two or three 
 High souls, like those far stars that come in sight 
 
 Once in a century ; — 
 
 But better far it is to speak 
 
 One simple word, which now and then 
 Shall waken their free nature in the weak 
 
 And friendless sons of men ; 
 
 To write some earnest verse or line. 
 Which, seeking not the praise of art, 
 
 Shall make a clearer faith and manhood shine 
 In the untutored heart. 
 
 He who doth this, in verse or prose, 
 
 May be forgotten in his day. 
 But surely shall be crowned at last with those 
 
 Who live and speak for aye.
 
 50 
 
 l^houghts 
 
 Suggested the day after seeing the Grave of Bums on the 
 Banks of Nith, near the Poefs residence. 
 
 William Wordsworth. 
 
 Too frail to keep the lofty vow 
 
 That must have followed when his brow 
 
 Was wreathed — "The Vision " tells us how — 
 
 With holly spray, 
 He faltered, drifted to and fro, 
 
 And passed away. 
 
 Well might such thoughts, dear sister, throng 
 Our minds when lingering, all too long 
 Over the grave of Burns we hung. 
 
 In social grief — 
 Indulged as if it were a wrong 
 
 To seek relief. 
 
 But, leaving each unquiet theme 
 Where gentlest judgments may misdeem,
 
 THOUGHTS. ' 51 
 
 And prompt to welcome every gleam 
 
 Of good and fair, 
 Let us beside this limpid stream 
 
 Breathe hopeful air. 
 
 Enough of sorrow, wreck, and blight ; 
 Think rather of those moments bright 
 When to the unconsciousness of right 
 
 His course was true. 
 When Wisdom prospered in his sight 
 
 And virtue grew. 
 
 Yes, freely let our hands expand, 
 Freely as in youth's season bland. 
 When side by side, his Book in hand, 
 
 We wont to stray, 
 Our pleasure varying at command 
 
 Of each sweet Lay. 
 
 How oft inspired must he have trode 
 These pathways, yon far-stretching road ! 
 There lurks his home ; in that Abode, 
 
 With mirth elate. 
 Or in his nobly pensive mood, 
 
 The Rustic sate. 
 
 Proud thoughts that Image overawes, 
 
 Before it humbly let us pause, 
 
 And ask of Nature, from which cause 
 
 And by what rules 
 She trained her Birns lo win applause 
 
 That shames the Schools.
 
 52 THOUGHTS. 
 
 Through busiest street and loneliest glen 
 
 Are felt the flashes of his pen : 
 
 He rules, mid winter snows, and when 
 
 Bees fill their hives : 
 Deep in the general heart of men 
 
 His power survives. 
 
 What need of fields in some far clime 
 Where Heroes, Sages, Bards sublime, 
 And all that fetched the flowing rhyme 
 
 From genuine springs, 
 Shall dwell together till old Time 
 
 Folds up his wings ? 
 
 Sweet Mercy ! to the gates of Heaven 
 The minstrel lead, his sins forgiven ; 
 The rueful conflict, the heart riven 
 
 With vain endeavour, 
 And memory of Earth's bitter leaven. 
 
 Effaced for ever. 
 
 But why to him confine the prayer, 
 
 When kindred thoughts and yearnings bear 
 
 On the frail heart the purest share 
 
 With all that live ?— 
 The best of what we do and are. 
 
 Just God forgive !
 
 53 
 
 ^0 the Sons of 56tirn0 
 
 After Visiting the Grave of their Father, 
 
 William Wordsworth. 
 
 *MlD crowded obelisks and urns 
 
 I sought the untimely grave of Burns ; 
 
 Sons of the bard, my heart still mourns 
 
 With sorrow true : 
 And more would grieve, but that it turns 
 
 Trembling to you. 
 
 Through twilight shades of good and ill 
 
 Ye now are panting up life's hill, 
 
 And more than common strength and skill 
 
 Must ye display 
 If ye would give the better will 
 
 Its lawful sway. 
 
 Hath Nature strung your nerves to bear 
 Intemperance with less harm, beware ! 
 But if the poet's wit ye share, 
 Like him can speed
 
 54 TO THE SONS OF BURNS. 
 
 The social hour — for tenfold care 
 There will be need. 
 
 Even honest men delight will take 
 To spare your '"ailings for his sake, 
 Will flatter you, — and fool and rake, 
 
 Your steps j^ursue : 
 And of ) our father's name will make 
 
 A snare for you. 
 
 Far from their noisy haunts retire. 
 And add your voices to the quire 
 That sanctify the cottage fire 
 
 With service meet ; 
 There seek the genius of your sire, — 
 
 His spirit greet : 
 
 Or where, 'mid " lonely heights and hows " 
 He paid to Nature tuneful vows ; 
 Or wiped his honourable brows 
 
 Bedewed with toil. 
 While reapers strove, or busy ploughs 
 
 Upturned the soil ; 
 
 His judgment with benignant ray 
 Shall guide, his fancy cheer, your way ; 
 But ne'er to a seductive lay 
 
 Let faith be given ; 
 Nor deem that " light which leads astray, 
 
 Is light from heaven."
 
 TO THE SONS OF BURNS. 55 
 
 Let no mean hope your souls enslave ; 
 Be independent, generous, brave ; 
 Your father such example gave, 
 
 And such revere ; 
 But be admonished liy his grave, 
 
 And think and fear !
 
 56 
 
 Mo&QQul 
 
 William Wordsworth. 
 
 " There," said a stripling, pointing with meet pride 
 Towards a low roof with green trees half concealed, 
 
 *' Is Mossgiel farm ; and that's the very field 
 
 Where Burns ploughed up the daisy." Far and wide 
 A plain below stretched sea-ward, while descried 
 Above sea-clouds, the Peaks of Arran rose ; 
 And by that simple notice the repose 
 Of earth, sky, sea, and air was vivified . 
 Beneath " the random l/ze/d of cloud or stone" 
 Myriads of daisies have strove forth in flower 
 Near the lark's nest, and in their natural hour 
 Have passed away, less happy than the one 
 That by the unwiling ploughshare died to prove 
 The tender charm of poetry and love.
 
 57 
 
 ^unis at ittoBjsgiel/ 
 
 Charles Kent. 
 
 Bright dews of labour on his brow, 
 Warm passion in the ruddy glow, 
 Deep-flushing lustrous eyes below — 
 
 What love flames back 
 Where thro' green leaves the white gleams flow 
 
 That mark her track ! 
 
 Sweet glimpse but of a rustic girl 
 
 With tartan veiled, whence streams one curl, 
 
 Where fluttering witcheries unfurl 
 
 Love's springs of hair— 
 Of ringlets, yea ! the pink, the pearl, 
 
 His heart to snare ! 
 
 Among the rippling wheat he stands, 
 A tawny reaper with brown hands, 
 That swathe ripe sheaves with crackling bands, 
 Or with keen blade 
 
 * From " Dreamland, and other Poems." By Charles Kent. Long- 1 
 
 mans, 1862.
 
 S8 BURNS AT MOSSGIEL. 
 
 Sweep gold waves back from stubble-strands 
 With shocks arrayed. 
 
 Rough, sunburnt, stalwart son of toil, 
 To till, to sow, to glean the soil. 
 How fair to thee that ringlet's coil 
 
 That lures thy gaze ! 
 Not rudest lot thy fame shall foil 
 
 To chant her praise ! 
 
 One moment there, one moment gone, 
 Quenched seems the arrowy beam that shone 
 That twinkling golden tress upon 
 
 In trills of light — 
 Hope's shadowy mist of dreamings drawn 
 
 Before thy sight ! 
 
 Seen thro' which tremulous haze of hope, 
 Spread wide before thy fancy's scope — 
 As when o'er midnight's mystic cope 
 
 God's gems are seen — 
 Strange visionary splendours ope 
 
 And shine serene. 
 
 A young athletic peasant, thou ! 
 
 Full soon Fame's crown shall gird thy brow 
 
 Thick gemmed with scarlet berries' glow, 
 
 'Mid bristling leaves, 
 Thy sceptre, but a sickle now. 
 
 Sway souls for sheaves.
 
 BURNS AT MOSSGIEL. 59 
 
 That wondrous sceptre of thy song 
 Shall ever to thy land belong, 
 While every rapture, every wrong. 
 
 That thrills thy breast. 
 By sympathy shall thrill the throng 
 
 Thy woes have blest. 
 
 Then million millions yet unborn 
 Will hail with joy this autumn morn, 
 When loitering 'mid the ripened corn, 
 
 Thy glorious eyes 
 W^atched thro' yon maze of leaf and thorn 
 
 Thy life's best prize. 
 
 Thy bonnie Jean, thy winsome wife, 
 Sweet blossom of that rugged life — 
 Rough rind with tenderest fibre rife, 
 
 Whence bloomed yon flower, 
 Rich guerdon of thy manhood's strife. 
 
 With healing power. 
 
 Was not her type that gowan fair, 
 When, toiling down the glebe of Ayr, 
 Thy footstep tracked the hissing share 
 
 That turned the mould. 
 And pity yearned that jewel rare 
 
 With love t' enfold ? 
 
 The bonniest lass of blithest charms 
 Thou e'er didst win with wooing arms.
 
 6o BURNS AT MOSSGIEL. 
 
 To soothe thee 'midst the world's alarms 
 
 In home's dear rest, 
 "With looks whose merest memory warms 
 
 Thy manly breast. 
 
 The fairest of them all was she — 
 
 Von " lass that made the bed for thee ! " 
 
 To whom thy trust in grief may flee, 
 
 By anguish riven — 
 When Highland Mary e'en shall be 
 
 Still loved in heaven ! 
 
 Unheard as yet Fame's trumpet-call 
 From yonder lowly labours' thrall 
 To grand Walhalla's deathless hall, 
 
 Where waits his throne — 
 Yon Peasant-Poet counts worth all 
 
 Her love alone ! 
 
 Around him thus the day-beams shine 
 O'er locks more black than raven's crine, 
 O'er glittering orbs of light divine, 
 
 And radiant face. 
 Where sentience thrills each lordly line 
 
 With nerves of grace. 
 
 Ah ! better, Robin, thus to stand 
 With sickle aye in healthful hand 
 Than leader of a brawling band 
 
 With gauge or bowl. 
 When bowed to sordid craft thy grand 
 
 Heroic soul !
 
 6i 
 
 fiobcrt ^xnm. 
 
 James Montgomery. 
 
 What bird, in beauty, flight, or song, 
 
 Can with the Bard compare, 
 Who sang as sweet, and soar'd as strong, 
 
 As every child of air ? 
 
 His phime, his note, his form, could Burns 
 
 For whim or pleasure change ; 
 He was not one, but all by turns, 
 
 With transmigration strange. 
 
 The Blackbird, oracle of spring. 
 When flowed his moral lay ; 
 
 The Swallow wheeling on the wing, 
 Capriciously at play ; 
 
 The Humming-bird, from bloom to bloom, 
 
 Inhaling heavenly balm ; 
 The Raven in the tempest's gloom ; 
 
 The Halycon, in the calm ;
 
 62 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 In '« Auld Kirk Alloway," the Owl, 
 At witching time of night ; 
 
 By " Bonnie Doon " the earliest Fowl 
 That caroll'd to the light. 
 
 He was the Wren amidst the grove, 
 When in his homely vein ; 
 
 At Bannockburn the Bird of Jove, 
 With thunder in his train ; 
 
 The Woodlark, in his mournful hours ; 
 
 The Goldfinch, in his mirth ; 
 The Thrush, a spendthrift of his powers. 
 
 Enrapturing heaven and earth ; 
 
 The Swan in majesty and grace. 
 
 Contemplative and still ; 
 But roused, — no Falcon in the chase. 
 
 Could like his satire kill. 
 
 The Linnet in simplicity, 
 In tenderness the Uove ; 
 
 But more than all beside was he- 
 The Nightingale in love. 
 
 Oh ! had he never stoop'd to shame, 
 Nor lent a charm to vice, 
 
 How had Devotion loved to name 
 That Bird of Paradise !
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 63 
 
 Peace to the dead ! — In Scotia's choir 
 
 or minstrels great and small, 
 He sprang from his spontaneous fire, 
 
 The Phoenix of them all.
 
 64 
 
 Jor the Ccntcmtrt) oi Pob^rt i^xxxm. 
 
 Robert LEiGHTO>f. 
 
 The world is old ! States, Empires, Kings 
 Have risen, ruled, and pass'd away ; 
 
 Yet David harps, and Homer sings, 
 And he of Avon speaks to-day. 
 
 The living song will still abide ; 
 
 And when our age is dust in urns 
 The world, as now, will own with pride 
 
 Its life long debt to Robert Burns. 
 
 His touch was universal birth ; 
 
 He set his native streams to tune ; 
 And every corner of the earth 
 
 Knows Nith and Lugar, Ayr and Doon. 
 
 His homes we seek, his haunts we trace 
 Wherever thought of him is found, 
 
 We follow him from place to place 
 And all is consecrated ground.
 
 CENTENARY OF ROBERT BURNS. 65 
 
 On things that disregarded lie 
 
 His look bequeath'd a priceless dower, 
 
 The trodden daisy caught his eye 
 And blossom'd an immortal flower. 
 
 Love's tender throes with him became 
 A sweet religion ; and he poured 
 
 Such floods of beauty round a name 
 That all men love whom he adored. 
 
 The patriot-hero's brows he bound 
 With wreaths, eternal as the sun : 
 
 Tho' lowly honest man he crown'd ; 
 He made the king and beggar one. 
 
 For well he knew that lord, or kijig. 
 Was but a word. With deeper scan 
 
 He made both peer and peasant sing 
 Their highest title still was — man. 
 
 In "shooting folly as it flew " 
 There never was a deadlier aim ; 
 
 And even those his satire slew 
 Are joint partakers of his fame. 
 
 He lashed the bigot ; his the creed 
 
 Embracing all humanity ; 
 A conscience clear in word and deed — 
 
 One Father, God ; and brethren, we.
 
 66 CENTENARY OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 And if we blame the sparkling rhymes 
 That made the maddening cup sublime, 
 
 Think only of the alter'd times, 
 And give the censure to the time. 
 
 In humour, friendship, pity, worth — 
 
 In themes that change not with the day — 
 Broad Nature, felt o'er all the earth — 
 
 His genius holds unmeasured sway. . 
 
 Great Prince of Song ! to mark thy fame, 
 
 O for a moment of thy pen ! 
 'Twere needless pains — thy living name 
 
 Is written on the hearts of men. 
 
 Our gilt makes not thy gold more bright ; 
 
 But hearts enrich'd would yield returns ; 
 A world of homage meets to-night, 
 
 And every thought breathes Robert Burns. 
 
 fi
 
 67 
 
 Jlbbrcss l0 the Shabc ot iSui'itB. 
 
 Written for the Third Anniversary of the Irvine 
 Burns Club, i82g. 
 
 Captain Charles Gray. 
 
 Hail Burns ! my native Bard, sublime ; 
 Great master of our Doric rhyme ! 
 Thy name shall last to latest time, 
 
 And unborn ages 
 Shall listen to the magic chime 
 
 Of thy enchanting pages ! 
 
 Scarce had kind Nature given thee birth, 
 When from his caverns of the North, 
 Wild Winter sent his tempests forth, 
 
 The winds propelling — 
 To level with its native earth. 
 
 The clay-built lowly dwelling. 
 
 Too well such storm did indicate 
 The gloom that hung upon thy fate ; — 
 Arrived at manhood's wished estate. 
 When ills were rife.
 
 68 ADDRESS TO THE SHADE OF BURNS. 
 
 Thy heart would dance with joy elate 
 At elemental strife ! 
 
 Lone-seated by the roaring flood, 
 
 Or walking by the sheltered wood, j 
 
 Rapt in devotion's solemn mood, | 
 
 Thy ardent mind ! 
 
 Left, whilst with generous thoughts it glowed, j 
 
 This sordid world behind ! j 
 
 Thou found man's sentence was to moil. 
 In turning o'er the stubborn soil ; 
 But ne'er was learning's midnight oil 
 
 By thee consumed ; 
 Yet humour, fancy, cheered thy toil 
 
 Whilst Nature round thee bloomed. 
 
 Though nurtured in the lowly shed — 
 A peasant born — with rustics bred — 
 Bright genius round thy head display'd 
 
 Her beams intense — 
 Where Coila formed thee — loveliest maid ! 
 
 Ben i' the smeeky spence ! 
 
 Mute is the voice of Coila now. 
 
 Who once with laurels decked thy brow ;- 
 
 Still let us ne'er forget that thou 
 
 Taught learned men : 
 The hand that held the pond'rous plough 
 
 Could wield the Poets' pen !
 
 ADDRESS TO THE SHADE OF BURNS. 69 
 
 Upon thine eagle-course I gaze, 
 And weep o'er all thy devious ways ; 
 Tho' peer and peasant prized thy lays 
 
 What did it serve ? 
 Grim av'rice said, " Give lasting bays, 
 
 But let the Poet starve ! " 
 
 The heartless mandate was obeyed ; — 
 Although the holly crowned thy head, 
 Yet wealth and power withheld their aid, 
 
 And hugg'd their gain ; 
 While thy loved babes may cry for bread, 
 
 And cry alas ! in vain ! 
 
 But now thy column seeks the skies, 
 
 And draws the inquiring stranger's eyes ; — 
 
 Art's mimic boast for thee may rise 
 
 Magnificent ; — 
 Yet thou hast reared, 'midst bitter sighs, 
 
 A prouder monument ! 
 
 Thy songs "untaught by rules of art," 
 Came gushing from thy manly heart. 
 And claim for thee a high desert ; — 
 
 In them we find 
 What genius only can impart — 
 
 A mood for every mind ! 
 
 The milkmaid at calm evening's close- 
 The ploughman starting from repose — 
 The lover weeping o'er his woes — 
 The worst of pains !
 
 70 ADDRESS TO THE SHADE OF BURNS. 
 
 The soldier as to fight he goes — 
 All chaunt thy varied strains ! 
 
 Sweet minstrel, " of the lowly train," 
 We ne'er shall see thy like again ! 
 May no rude hand thy laurels stain ; 
 
 But o'er thy bier 
 Let poets breathe the soothing strain 
 
 Through each revolving year ! 
 
 Yes ! future bards shall pour the lay 
 To hail with joy thy natal day ; 
 And round thy head the verdant bay, 
 
 Shall firm remain 
 Till Nature's handiworks decay, 
 
 And chaos come again !
 
 71 
 
 Jlobcrt 5i3urn6. 
 
 Dr. John M. Harper. 
 
 Written on the occasion of tlu poet'' s anniversary, and read 
 before the Literary and Historical Society of Quebec, 
 of which the author is Vice-President. 
 
 Sweet in the ear of fame of yore a bard, 
 
 With lips a lover's, wooed the heart of time ; 
 
 To him his love alone was meet reward. 
 Ere fame awoke to find his song sublime : 
 
 Within his heart the sheen of nature glowed ; 
 
 A patriot's fire his noble soul endowed, 
 
 And heart and soul found ecstacy in rhyme 
 
 That stirred the heart of time and soul of fame 
 
 To garland with the loves of men the Poet's name. 
 
 'Twas where the landscape sighs, when Bonnie Doon 
 
 Sings mournfully as winter stays its glee, 
 The cottar's hearth, in light of Januar's moon. 
 
 First heard the cry disguised of heaven's decree — 
 A Scottish poet born ; the north-wind blew 
 A trumpet-blast, but none the omen knew, 
 
 Though drear the willows sighed across the lea,
 
 72 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 And every sombre pine and bearded oak 
 Sustained the solemn strain till day awoke. 
 
 And day by day awoke till summer came, 
 
 And year by year the rills renewed their song, 
 And year by year amid the sweet acclaim 
 
 Of rural joys, the Poet's soul grew strong : 
 For him ran clear the rhythm of the Doon : 
 For him its banks and braes were heaven's boon ; 
 
 When rang the glades with summer's warbling throng, 
 When blushing Nature laughed in every glen 
 To find her child, a poet, sing his sweet amen. 
 
 The poor maun thole what heroes whiles endure. 
 Their night brings cheer through little hope of day ; 
 
 And Robin's portion, not of shame, though poor, 
 Distrained his thrift, the debt of fate to pay : 
 
 Yet while the glebe his labouring ploughshare gripped, 
 
 The cowering Rloiise and Daisy, crimson-tipped, 
 Less toilsome made for him life's weary way, 
 
 When love lit up the vista of its joys 
 
 With light, that from our soul's Despondency decoys. 
 
 To him was precious as the sweetest flower 
 
 The incense of the Cottar's evening care — 
 A savour sweeter far than scented bower 
 
 Of sanctity adorned at Holy Fair: 
 The altar of his father's faith was truth- 
 Truth born within, no outer silvered sooth 
 Of Unco Gtiid or Holy Willie's Prayer ; 
 And if from pleasure Robin stole a kiss, 
 The truth A Ma>i's a Man—^for a' was surely his.
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 73 
 
 The scenes in amber gold o^ Aithl Laitgsyne, 
 The symphonies around our childhood's home, 
 
 The jewelled sward where browsed the sober kine, 
 The hav/thorn groves where love was wont to roam — 
 
 Of these he sang, and still his music thrills 
 
 The hearts of men to wile away their ills. 
 Even from his sadness sunbeams often come, 
 
 To foster in us wish to live again, 
 
 Where youth and mirth of yore began their wistful reign. 
 
 If reason frolics in the Ttua Dog's name, 
 
 And mense falls out near by the Brigs of Ayr, 
 If friendship's tryst neglects domestic claim, 
 
 To jeopard prudence and the Sliaiiter's mare ; 
 On other chords /o,^« Andersoji my Jo 
 Plays sweet to soothe life's weary steps of woe, 
 
 While Man was made to mourn makes men repair 
 The breach of fate, and through their grief hath raised 
 The test, that finds the good's in good and ill appraised. 
 
 If satire romps with Hornbook and his kind 
 
 To tear the tinsel veil from falsehood's face. 
 If frailily dares the De^il and every hind 
 
 Who seeks to drag the human through disgrace, 
 Love's sadness hath to joy a sweetness given 
 In Highland Mary and the hope that's heaven, 
 
 While Mailie Dead finds elegy a place 
 Between our smiles and tears, as Hallowe'en, 
 With fun that fears, crowns sacred things with evergreen. 
 
 And when his wooing took heroic flight, 
 His fervent spirit revelled in the past, 
 
 5
 
 74 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 To sing the deeds of men who knew the right, 
 And, knowing, dared maintain it to the last : 
 
 The thrilHng, throbbing strains of Scots IV/ia Hue 
 
 Reverberate down the aisles of liberty : 
 In them the poean-peals of war outlast. 
 
 Though hushed, the torture of the patriot's task, 
 
 Though Scotia's glens, in sunshine born of peace, now bask. 
 
 'Twas thus the heart of time the Poet fanned. 
 
 Thus won he claim to wear the Vision's wreath ; 
 Bred to the plough, his fame in every land 
 
 Is scented with the fragrance of the heath : 
 The meadows fling his praises to the breeze. 
 The storm-winds echo them beyond the seas. 
 
 And with them other bards bedew their faith. 
 Till every isle that loves the Saxon tongue 
 Hath with his lowland melody the welkin rung. 
 
 And Scotia's sons with patriotic cheer 
 
 Join festival to celebrate his birth ; 
 The spirit of his song still hovers near, 
 
 To lustre friendship and its well-timed mirth. 
 His song was Nature's — incense of the heart, 
 With naught to hide, because it knew no art, — 
 
 The song of life as life is found on earth — 
 Sweetness in sorrow, evil out of good. 
 The only song man sings and yet hath understood. 
 
 How oft his minstrelsy entints our joys ! 
 
 How oft his genius bindeth friends sincere ! 
 If life and joy we know \e but alloys, 
 
 'Tis these his love and poesy endear :
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 75 
 
 Hail to the land whose poet son he was ! 
 
 Hail to the land that fought in freedom's cause ! 
 
 Hail to its love of song that runneth clear ; 
 With hand in hand as brethren let us seek 
 The virtue void of art, the patriot-pride that's meek.
 
 76 
 
 yatttirt' 1^0biir, ^filwmhx' ^obin. 
 
 David Seddes. 
 
 When Januar' winds were ravin' wil' 
 O'er a' the districts o' our isle, 
 There was a callant born in Kyle, 
 
 And he was christen'd Robin. 
 Oh Robin was a dainty lad, 
 
 Rantin' Robin, rhymin' Robin ; 
 It made the gossips unco glad 
 
 To hear the cheep o' Robin. 
 
 That ne'er to be forgotten morn, 
 When Coila's darling son was born, 
 Auld Scotland on his stock — an' horn, 
 
 Play'd " Welcome Hame " to Robin. 
 And Robin was the blithest loon, 
 
 Rantin' Robin, rhymin' Robin, 
 That ever sung beneath the moon — 
 
 We'll a' be proud o' Robin. 
 
 Fame stappin' in ayont the hearth — 
 Cried " I forsee your matchless worth,
 
 RANTIN' ROBIN. 77 
 
 And to the utmost ends o' earth 
 
 I'll be your herald, Robin ! " 
 And well she did emblaze his name, 
 
 Rantin' Robin, rhymin' Robin, 
 In characters o' livin' flame, — 
 
 We'll a' be proud o' Robin. 
 
 The Muses round his cradle hung. 
 The Graces wat his infant tongue, 
 And Independence wi' a rung. 
 
 Cried—" Redd the gate for Robin ! " 
 For Robin's soul-arousing tones, 
 
 Rantin' ROBiN, rhymin' Robin, 
 Gar'd tyrants tremble on their thrones, — 
 
 We'll a' be proud o' Robin. 
 
 Then let's devote this night to mirth. 
 And celebrate our Poet's birth ; 
 While Freedom preaches i' the earth, 
 
 She'll tak' her text frae ROBIN. 
 Oh ! Robin's magic notes shall ring, 
 
 Rantin' Robin, rhymin' Robin, 
 WTiile rivers run and flowerets spring, 
 
 Huzza ! huzza for Robin ! !
 
 78 
 
 OrlUsliinb. 
 
 Prof. John Stuart Blackie. 
 
 Fair Ellisland, thou dearest spot 
 On Scottish soil to each true Scot, 
 With wood and stream, and shining cot, 
 
 Thy beauty sways me, 
 And love is rash — O blame me not 
 
 If I shall praise thee ! 
 
 Wide waves the leafy June around. 
 
 The banks with blossomy curls are crowned, 
 
 Sweet flows with mild and murmurous sound 
 
 The clear Nith River, 
 And peace holds all the grassy ground 
 
 Now sacred ever. 
 
 The Poet's farm ! a fairer sight 
 
 Ne'er filled my view with calm delight ; 
 
 Full fitly here our minstrel wight 
 
 Did pitch his dwelling. 
 With Beauty's green and gentle might 
 
 Around him swelling !
 
 ELLISLAND. 79 
 
 Here stands the house, the very wall 
 Stout labour raised at Robin's call, 
 A farmer's beild, which, low and small, 
 
 No envy breedeth, 
 Enough for comfort and for all 
 
 A poet needeth. 
 
 And there the stack-yard where he lay 
 And gazed upon the starry ray, 
 When pensive Memory's tender sway, 
 
 With fingers fairy, 
 Struck from his heart the sad sweet lay 
 
 Of Highland Mary ! 
 
 And here the bank where he did sit, 
 When once his quick and glancing wit 
 Off-started on a racing fit 
 
 With glorious canter, 
 And forth with flashing hit on hit 
 
 Flew Tarn O'Shanter ! 
 
 And oft, I ween, to that green bower 
 He walked, in placid evening hour. 
 With bonnie Jean, whose smile had power 
 
 To soothe his spirit 
 When fitful thoughts, and fancies sour. 
 
 Might rudely stir it ! 
 
 Fair Ellisland ! thou dearest spot 
 To each true-hearted stalwart Scot,
 
 8o 
 
 ELLISLAND. 
 
 \Vhen I forget thy small white cot 
 
 And winding river, 
 Sheer from my thought may Memory blot 
 
 All trace for ever.
 
 8i 
 
 $3uvn!5* ^irthbag. 
 
 Thomas Buchanan Read. 
 
 My friends, the grape that charms the cup to-night, 
 Should be the noblest ever grown in cluster ; 
 
 Our flowers of wit and song should be so bright, 
 That all the place should wear a noon-tide lustre. 
 
 For he whose mortal day, and marvellous worth, 
 We strive to honour with our yearly presence, 
 
 Was of that clay so seldom found on earth, 
 
 On which the gods bestow their purest essence. 
 
 Ay, doubly bright should this ovation be ; 
 
 For we are honoured far beyond your dreaming ; 
 The inward spirit bids me look and see. 
 
 Where comes the bard with light and music teeming. 
 
 lie comes, but not like Hamlet's sire, to wing 
 The soul with fear, and urge to painful duty ; 
 
 He comes ; let us behold the phantom king — 
 The king of song, and marvel at his beauty.
 
 82 BURNS' BIRTHDAY. 
 
 I see his presence in the luminous air, 
 
 And feel no thrill to make my blood run colder ; 
 He stands beside our presidential chair, 
 
 With loving arm upon a Scotchman's shoulder. 
 
 Upon his brow a crown of glory beams ; 
 
 His robe of splendour makes the lamplight hazy ; 
 In his right hand a pledging goblet gleams, 
 
 The other holds a " crimson tipped daisy." 
 
 Of deathless rainbows is his tartan plaid ; 
 
 His bonnet now is the celestial laurel ; 
 And on his face the light of song betrayed. 
 
 Makes all the room with poesy grow choral. 
 
 With eye of inspiration stands the bard ; 
 
 His lips are moving, though no sound can follow. 
 Let me translate, — although the task is hard, — 
 
 To justly render Scotland's sweet Apollo. 
 
 "Dear friends, and brother Scotsmen, doubly dear," 
 'Tis thus the poet looks his kind oration, 
 
 " The day is come, which once in every year 
 Calls me to make my wonted visitation. 
 
 " I glide through Caledonian halls of mirth, 
 Where votive feast and song together mingle ; 
 
 I seek the cot, — the sweetest place on earth 
 Is just the simple peasant's glowing ingle.
 
 BURNS' BIRTHDAY. 83 
 
 " The haughty Briton lights his dusk saloon, 
 Forgetting all his rancour for Prince Charlie, 
 
 And to the ploughman bard of Ayr and Doon, 
 Pledges the smoking bree of Scottish barley. 
 
 " Where'er a ship upon the ocean swings, 
 
 To-night, before the mariners seek their pillows, 
 
 My songs shall sail on their melodious wings. 
 Like sea-birds o'er the phosphorescent billows. 
 
 " By Indian river, and Australian mine, 
 And by the wall of China's old dominions. 
 
 My verse above their cups of mellow wine. 
 Shall fan the air to music with its pinions. 
 
 " The far Canadian winter hears my name. 
 
 E'en where the trapper's northern home is chosen. 
 
 The songs of Scotland, mingling with the flame, 
 Warm all within, though all without be frozen. 
 
 " By Californian shores and forests old. 
 
 Where, like a mighty bard new realms discerning. 
 
 The gray Pacific, over sands of gold, 
 
 Chants his great song, the glittering metal spurning. 
 
 '* In new-built towns, and round the miner's lamp, 
 Or on the plains, or by the Colorado ; 
 
 Where'er the far adventurous train may camp. 
 My song to-night shall cheer the deepest shadow.
 
 84 "BURNS' BIRTHDAY. 
 
 " Or in the snow beleagured tents of strife, 
 By jocund fires, or beds of painful story, 
 
 Health shall take courage, and the sick new life. 
 To hear of Wallace, and of Bruce's glory. 
 
 " Oh, that my song may be as bolts of fire, 
 Within the grasp of soldiers and of seamen ! 
 
 The bard profanely wakes the sacred lyre, 
 
 Who chants no strain to nerve the hearts of freemen. 
 
 " From town to town, obedient to the call, 
 I pass in haste, for envious Time is fleeting, 
 
 As oft before, within this noble hall, 
 
 I greet the friends who cheer me with their greeting. 
 
 " Here in your midst, my brothers, once again, 
 I stand to-night a saddened guest and speaker ; 
 
 I miss among you certain noble men. 
 
 Who erewhile pledged me in a brimming beaker. 
 
 *' For your sakes saddened, — not, my friends, for mine,- 
 You mourn their music, and their pleasant sallies ; 
 
 But we together pledge nectarean wine. 
 And join our song in amaranthine valleys. 
 
 " I see the forms your sight cannot discern — 
 I see the smile across their happy faces ; 
 
 With eye of loving faith look round and learn 
 
 Your friends are here, — there are no empty places.
 
 BURNS' BIRTHDAY. 85 
 
 "From shadowy goblets held in fingers dim, 
 
 We drain the glass that keeps the memory vernal, 
 
 Our cups with yours are clinking brim to brim. 
 And thus we pledge you in a draught fraternal. 
 
 "Adieu, adieu ! across the eternal sea 
 
 Still let us hear your pleasant song and laughter, 
 
 And let the love you bear me, warrant be. 
 Of love as deep for all true bards hereafter."
 
 86 
 
 SincB 
 
 Writteti on the Anniversary of Burns'' Birth-Day, when 
 wandering belated in the mount ai?i passes on the 
 frontier of Vermont, 
 
 Hugh Ainslie. 
 
 When last my feeble voice I raised 
 
 To thy immortal dwelling, 
 The flame of friendship round me blazed, 
 
 On breath of rapture swelling ! 
 
 Now far into a foreign land. 
 The heav'ns above me scowling, 
 
 The big bough waving like the wand, 
 The forest caverns howling ; 
 
 No kindred voice is in mine ear, 
 No heart with mine is beating ; 
 
 No tender eye of blue is near, 
 My glance of kindness meeting ;
 
 LINES. 87 1 
 
 i 
 
 But woody mountains, towering rude, 
 
 Dare heaven with their statures ! < 
 
 'Tis Nature in her roughest mood, ' 
 
 Amidst her roughest features ! 
 
 i 
 Yet thou, who sang'st of Nature's charms, 
 
 In barrenness and blossom. 
 Thy strain of love and freedom warms 
 
 The chill that's in my bosom. 
 
 And here, where tyranny is mute, 
 
 And right hath the ascendance, 
 O ! Where's the soil could better suit 
 
 Thy hymn of independence ? 
 
 Thou giant 'mong the mighty dead ! 
 
 Full bowls to thee are flowing ; 
 High souls of Scotia's noble breed 
 
 With pride his might are glowing !
 
 88 
 
 5l3uvns. 
 
 John Imlah. 
 
 Praise to the poet's name who breathed 
 
 On Scotia's ear the sweetest lays ! 
 Hail to his natal day who wreathed 
 
 The harp with greenest bays ! 
 Was ever name so loved as his 
 
 That o'er the Scottish heart so yearns ? 
 Was ever day so dear as this 
 
 That bore us Robert Burns ? 
 
 Yes ! men and minstrels first among 
 
 Is he whose name we honour now, — 
 Old Coila's son— the chief of song, 
 
 The poet of the plough ! 
 From castle hall to cottage hearth, 
 
 Shall Scotia, — while this day returns 
 That gave her master minstrel birth, — 
 
 Remember Robert Burns ! 
 
 Who breathed like him the burning strain 
 Of lovers' fervour, hopes, and fears ?
 
 BURNS. 89 
 
 So knew the Muse's varied vein 
 
 Of transport and of tears? " 
 
 Or, if to rouse the patriot's soul, — 
 
 The spirit that oppression spurns, — j 
 
 Even to the death to glory's goal, — 
 
 Who woke the lay like Burns ? 
 
 The wood-lark warbling on the spray, | 
 
 The daisy flowering at his feet, 
 Gave inspiration to his lay, 
 
 Solemn and sad, yet sweet ; 
 The homely feast of Hallowe'en — I 
 
 The ancient rites that science scorns — 
 The pastimes of old days have been 
 
 Embaltn'd by Robert Burns ! 
 
 " The op'ning gowan wat wi' dew," 
 
 He twined with beauteous thought and theme, \ 
 
 The humblest bud the green earth grew ; 
 
 His song has made supreme : ' 
 
 Ayr, Irvine, Lugar, Doon, and Nith, 
 
 Through hazels, birks, or broom, or ferns. 
 Gleam in hallow'd glory with , 
 
 The deathless songs of Burns ! ] 
 
 I 
 
 The shepherd in his lonely shiel, 
 
 The ploughman o'er the furrow'd field, ' 
 
 The maiden at her busy wheel, j 
 
 The cotter in his bield, , 
 
 Have found a language in his lay |l 
 
 Affection loves and memory learns — i 
 
 The thoughts and feelings, grave or gay, j 
 
 Of Nature and of Burns ! 
 6
 
 90 BURNS. 
 
 'Mid Western forests wide and drear, 
 
 On lands beneath the burning line, 
 Sweet come upon the exile's ear 
 
 The songs of " auld langsyne" ; 
 How fancy to the " banks and braes ' 
 
 Of early youth enrapt returns, 
 And lives o'er long departed days, 
 
 Charm'd by the songs of Burns ! 
 
 Not narrow'd to his native spot, 
 
 His soul embraced all Nature's plan, 
 He that knits Scot with brother Scot 
 
 Binds man with fellow-man ; 
 His harp the heart-strings of mankind, 
 
 Each feeling knew his touch by turns, 
 And own'd the master hand and mind 
 
 Of genius and of Burns ! 
 
 Wreathe laurels round the warrior's name, 
 
 With thousands' tears and blood imbued, 
 Rear trophies to the monarch's fame 
 
 For whom the sword subdued ; 
 But time will hush the hireling's praise. 
 
 The pile where marbled sorrow mourns — 
 The pyramid of future days 
 
 Is raised to Robert Burns ! 
 
 For ever cherish'd be his name 
 
 To whom the priceless gift was given, 
 High inspiration's holiest flame, — 
 
 The light that comes from heaven ! 
 Praise to the child— the chief of song. 
 
 And may, as monumental urns, 
 All hearts bear on them deep and strong 
 
 The memory of Burns !
 
 91 
 
 fiohin's ^ml 
 
 James Hogg. 
 
 Ae night i' the gloaming, as late I pass'd by, 
 A lassie sang sweet as she milkit her kye, 
 An' this was her sang, while her tears down did fa' — 
 O there's nae bard o' Nature sin' Robin's awa ! 
 The bards o' our country, now sing as they may, 
 The best o' their ditties but males my heart wae ; 
 For at the blithe strain there was ane beat them a' — 
 O there's nae bard o' Nature sin' Robin's awa ! 
 
 Auld Wat he is wily and pleases us fine, 
 
 Wi' his lang-nebbit tales an' his ferlies lang-syne ; 
 
 Young Jack is a dreamer, Will sings like a craw. 
 
 An' Davie an' Delta, are dowie an' slaw ; 
 
 Trig Tam frae the Heelands was ance a braw man ; 
 
 Poor Jamie he blunders an' sings as he can ; 
 
 There's the Clerk an' the Sodger, the News man an' a'. 
 
 But they gar me greet sairer for him that's awa ! 
 
 'Twas he that could charm wi' the wauffo' his tongue, 
 Could rouse up the auld an' enliven the young. 
 An' cheer the blithe hearts in the col an' the ha', 
 O there's nae bard o' Nature sin' Robin's awa !
 
 92 ROBIN'S AWA ! 
 
 Nae sangster amang us has half o' his art, 
 There was nae fonder lover, an' rae kinder heart ; 
 Then wae to the wight wha wad wince at a flaw, 
 To tarnish the honours of him that's awa ! 
 
 If he had some fauts I could never them see, 
 They're nae to be sung by sic gilpies as me, 
 He likit us weel, an' we likit him a', — 
 
 there's nae sican callan sin' Rob:n's awa ! 
 Whene'er I sing late at the milkin my kye, 
 
 1 look up to heaven an' say with a sigh. 
 Although he's now gane, he was king o' them a', — 
 Ah ! there's nae bard o' Nature sin' Robin's awa !
 
 93 
 
 Written for, and read at the Celebration of Robert Burns^ j 
 
 Birth-day, Paisley, 2gth famcary, iSoj. \ 
 
 Robert Tannahill. 
 
 Once on a time, almighty Jove 
 Invited all the minor gods above, 
 
 To spend one day in social festive pleasure ; 
 His regal robes were laid aside. 
 His crown, his sceptre, and his pride : 
 And wing'd with juy. 
 The hours did fly, 
 
 The happiest ever time did measure. 
 
 Of love and social harmony they sung, 
 
 Till heav'n's high golden arches echoing rung ; 
 
 And as they cjuaff'd the nectar-flowing can, 
 
 Their toast was, 
 
 " Universal peace 'twixt man and man." 
 
 Their godship's eyes beam'd gladness with the wish, 
 
 And Mars half-redden'd with a guilty blush ; 
 
 Jove swore he'd hurl each rascal to perdition. 
 
 Who'd dare deface his works with wild ambition ; 
 
 lUit poured encomiums on each patriot band, 
 
 Who hating conquest guard their native land.
 
 94 ODE. 
 
 Loud thund'ring plaudits shook the bright abodes, 
 Till Mercury, solemn-voic'd, assail'd their ears. 
 Informing, that a stranger, all in tears, 
 
 Weeping, implor'd an audience of the gods. 
 
 Jove, ever-prone to succour the distrest, 
 A swell redressive glow'd within his breast, 
 He pitied much the stranger's sad condition. 
 And order'd his immediate admission. 
 
 The stranger enter'd, bowed respect to all, 
 Respectful silence reign'd throughout the hall. 
 His chequer'd robes excited their surprise, 
 Richly transvers'd with various glowing dyes : 
 A target on his strong left arm he bore, 
 Broad as the shield the mighty Fingal wore, 
 The glowing landscape on it's centre shin'd. 
 And massy thistles round the borders twin'd ; 
 His brows were bound with yellow-blossom'd broom, 
 Green birch and roses blending in perfume ; 
 His eyes beam'd honour, tho' all red with grief, 
 And thus heaven's King spake comfort to the Chief. 
 " My son, let speech unfold thy cause of woe, 
 Say, why does melancholy cloud thy brow ? 
 'Tis mine the wrongs of virtue to redress ; 
 Speak, for 'tis mine to succour deep distress." 
 Then thus he spake : " O king ! by thy command, 
 I am the guardian of that far-fam'd land 
 Nam'd Caledonia, great in art and arms. 
 And every worth that social fondness charms, 
 With every virtue that the heart approve, 
 Warm in their friendships, rapt'rous in their loves. 
 Profusely generous, obstinately just. 
 Inflexible as death their vows of trust :
 
 ODE. 95 
 
 For independence fires their noble minds, 
 
 Scorning deceit, as gods do scorn the fiends. 
 
 But what avail the virtues of the North, 
 
 No Patriot Bard to celebrate their worth, 
 
 No heav'n-taught Minstrel, with the voice of song. 
 
 To hymn their deeds, and make their names live long ? 
 
 And, ah"! should luxury, with soft winning wiles, 
 
 Spread her contagion o'er my subject-isles, 
 
 My hardy sons, no longer valour's boast, 
 
 Would sink, despis'd, their wonted greatness lost. 
 
 Forgive my wish, O king ! I speak with awe, 
 
 Thy will is fate, thy word is sovereign law ! 
 
 O, wouldst thou deign thy suppliant to regard. 
 
 And grant my country one true Patriot Bard, 
 
 My sons would glory in the blessing given, 
 
 And virtuous deeds spring from the gift of heaven ! " 
 
 To which the god— " My son, cease to deplore, 
 
 Thy name in song shall sound the world all o'er ; 
 
 Thy Bard shall rise full-fraught with all the fire, 
 
 That heav'n and free-born nature can inspire : 
 
 Ye sacred Nine, your golden harps prepare, 
 
 T' instruct the fav'rite of my special care, 
 
 That whether the song be rais'd to war or love, 
 
 His soul-wing'd strains may equal those above. 
 
 Now faithful to thy trust, from sorrow free, 
 
 Go wait the issue of our high decree." 
 
 Speechless the Genius stood, in glad surprise. 
 
 Adoring gratitude beam'd in his eyes ; 
 
 The promis'd Bard, his soul with transport fills, 
 
 And light with joy he sought his native hills. 
 
 'Twas in regard of Wallace and his worth, 
 Jove honour'd Coila with his birth,
 
 96 ODE. 
 
 And on that morn, 
 
 "When Burns was born, 
 
 Each Muse with joy, 
 
 Did hail the boy ; 
 And fame on tip-toe, fain would blow her horn, 
 But Fate forbade the blast, too premature. 
 Till worth should sanction it beyond the critic's pow'r. 
 
 His merits proven— fame her blast hath blown, 
 
 Now Scotia's Bard o'er all the world is known — 
 
 But trembling doubts, here check my unpolished lays, 
 
 What can they add to a whole world's praise ; 
 
 Yet, while revolving time this day returns. 
 
 Let Scotchmen glory in the name of Burns.
 
 97 
 
 ^abcvt ^BurtTS. 
 
 Thomas Fraser. 
 
 Kyle claims his birth ;— wide earth, his name, 
 Where climes scarce kenn'd yet, peal his fame, 
 An' gaun time gayly chimes the same 
 
 Where'er he turns, 
 Now, every true warm heart's the hame 
 
 O' Minstrel Burns ! 
 
 Where Boreas brawls o'er blind'rin' snaw ; 
 Where simmer jinks through scented shaw ; 
 Where westlin' zephyrs saflly blaw. 
 
 There Robin reigns ; 
 An' even the thowless Esquimaux 
 
 Hae heard his strains ! 
 
 Dear Bonnie Doon, clear gurglin' Ayr, 
 
 Pure Afton an' the Lugar fair, 
 
 Can claim his sangs, their ain nae mair, 
 
 Sin' lang years syne. 
 Draw Hudson an' thrang Delaware 
 
 Kenn'd every line !
 
 98 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Frae zone to zone ! — where'er we trace 
 The clearin' o' the pale-faced race ; — 
 Where still the red man trains the chase 
 
 Through prairie brake, 
 E'en there his sang wi' sweet wild grace 
 
 Rings round the lake ! 
 
 The lone backwoodsman, as he seems 
 To ponder o'er his forest schemes, 
 Hums auld lang syne among his dreams 
 
 O' far-aff hame, 
 An' thinks, God bless him ! that the strains 
 
 Croon Robin's name ! 
 
 Mothers wha skirled his sangs when bairns 
 In Carrick, Lothian, Merse or Mearns, 
 Are listenin' now by Indian cairns 
 
 Wi' hearts half sobbin', 
 While some wee dawty blythely learns 
 
 A verse frae Robin ! 
 
 Sound though he sleeps in death's cauld bower, - 
 O ! what o' hearts this chosen hour, 
 Far as fleet fancy's wing can scower, 
 
 In raptured thrangs. 
 Are thirling wi' the warlock power 
 
 O' Robin's sangs. 
 
 Frae Alloway's auld hunted aisle 
 To far Australia's gowd-strewn soil ; 
 And e'en where India's ruthless guile 
 
 Mak's mercy quake, 
 Soul-minglin' there, worth, wealth and toil 
 
 Meet for his sake.
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 99 
 
 True hearts at hame — true to the core, 
 To auld Scots bards an' auld warld lore, 
 Are blendin' — as in scenes o' yore, 
 
 Wi' Burns the van — 
 Love for braw Clydesdale's wild woods hoar, 
 
 An' love for man. 
 
 Staid Arthur's Seat's grim grey man's head 
 Bows to Auld Reekie's requiem reed ; 
 While Soutra lifts the wailin' screed. 
 
 An' Tweed returns 
 His plaintive praises o'er the dead, 
 
 The darlin' Burns. 
 
 Poor dowie Mauchline dights her e'e ; 
 Nith maunders to the sabbin' sea ; 
 An' high on Bannock's far-famed lea 
 
 The stalwart thistle 
 Droops as the winds in mournfu' key 
 
 Around him rustle. 
 
 Dark glooms Dumfries, as slowly past 
 Saunt Michael's growls the gruesome blast, 
 Where Scotia, pale an' sair down-cast. 
 
 Clasps the sad grun' 
 That haps her loved, and to the last 
 
 Immortal Son ! 
 
 While backward frae the grave-yard drear. 
 Thought, tremblin' through a hundred year, 
 Sees Doon's clay cot, where weel hained cheer. 
 
 Shows poortith's joy 
 When Nature's sel' brought hame her dear, 
 
 Choice, noble boy.
 
 loo ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 But soon blythe hope fu' kindly keek 
 Within her wae-sunk heart, an' seeks 
 To tint her trickling snaw-white cheeks 
 
 Wi' words that burn, — 
 Why ! when a world her Bard's fame speaks ! 
 
 Why should she mourn ! 
 
 Wide though the great Atlantic rows 
 
 His huge waves, wi' their wild white pows, 
 
 To part our auld an' new warld knowes, 
 
 Weel pleased, she turns 
 A westward look, where lustrous grows 
 
 The name o' Burns ! 
 
 Pride, too, though tear-dimmed for a wee, 
 
 May lively light her heart wi' glee, 
 
 For where, sin' winged earth first flew free, 
 
 E'er lived the Ian' 
 That bore so true a Bard as he — 
 
 So true a Man ? 
 
 In him poor human nature's heart 
 Had ae firm friend to take its part, 
 So weel kenn'd he wi' what fell art 
 
 Our passions goad 
 Frail man to slight fair virtue's chart, 
 
 An' lose his road. 
 
 An' we, whose lot's to toil, an' thole, 
 Though cross an' care harass the soul, 
 Can cheer the weary wark-day's dole 
 
 Wi' strains heart-wrung, 
 Brave strains ! our Burns, worn but heart-whole, 
 
 Alone has sung.
 
 ROBERT BURNS. ibl 
 
 His words hae gi'en truth wings, to bear 
 Round earth the poor man's faith, that here 
 Vain pride can ne'er wi' plain worth peer, 
 
 Nor lift aught livin' 
 Ae foot, though tip-tae raxed on gear, 
 
 The nearer heaven. 
 
 Fearless for right, wi' nerve to dare, 
 Seer-like he laid his sage soul bare. 
 To show what life had graven there. 
 
 That earth might learn ; — 
 Yet, though a' earth in Burn's may share, 
 
 He's Scotia's bairn ! 
 
 An' O ! how dearly has he row'd 
 Her round wi' glory, like the gowd 
 Her ain braw sunset pours on cloud. 
 
 Crag, strath an' river. 
 Till queen o' sang she stands, uncowed, 
 
 An' crowned forever ! 
 
 Whilst we within our heart's-heart shrine 
 The man — " The brither man ! " — entwine 
 Wi' a' the loves o' auld lang syne ! 
 
 An' young to-day, 
 Scotland an' Burns ! — twa names to shine, 
 
 While Time grows grey ! 
 
 Scotland hersel' ! — wi' a her glories, 
 Her daurin' deeds an' dear auld stories ; 
 The great an' guid wha've gane before us ; 
 
 Her martyr host ; 
 E'en wi' the graves o' them that bore us. 
 
 The loved an' lost.
 
 I02 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Her sword, that aye flashed first for right ; 
 Her word, that never craved to might ; 
 Her sang, brought down Hke gleams o' light 
 
 On music's wings, 
 To nerve her in the lang fierce fight 
 
 Wi' hostile kings. 
 
 Her laverock, in the dawnin' clouds ; 
 Her merle, amang the evenin' woods ; 
 Her mavis, 'mang the birk's young buds ; 
 
 The blythe wee wren. 
 An' Robin's namesake, as he scuds 
 
 Through drift-white glen. 
 
 Her snawdrap, warslin' wi' the sleet ; 
 Her primrose, pearled wi' dewy weet ; 
 Her bluebell, frae its mountain seat 
 
 Beckin' an' bowin', 
 Her wee gem, sweetest o' the sweet. 
 
 The peerless gowan. 
 
 Her waters, in their sangsome glee, 
 Gurglin' through cleuch and clover-lea, 
 Soughin' aneath the saughen tree 
 
 Where fishers hide, 
 An' driftin' outward to the sea 
 
 Wi' buirdly pride. 
 
 The catkins, that her hazels hing 
 
 In clusters round the nooks o' spring ; 
 
 Her rowan, an' her haws, that swing 
 
 O'er wadeless streams. 
 An' bless the school-boy hearts, that bring 
 
 Them hame in dreams.
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 103 
 
 Her muirlan's, in their heather bloom ; 
 Her deep glens, in their silent gloom ; 
 Her gray crags, where their torrents fume 
 
 Wi' downward shiver ; 
 Her braesides, wi' their thistle plume, 
 
 Free, an' forever ! 
 
 Scotland hersel' — Heaven bless her name ! 
 Wi' a' her kith an' kin the same — 
 Yes ! Scotland's sel', wi' a' her fame, 
 
 Weel's we revere her, 
 Than him, her Bard o' heart an' hame, 
 
 Is scarcely dearer ! 
 
 So rare the sway, his heart-strains wield, 
 
 In lordly ha' an' low thack bield, 
 
 Wi' manhood, youth an' hoar-crowned eild. 
 
 O'er Scotland wild. 
 Burns an' The Word, frae Heaven revealed. 
 
 Lie side by side. 
 
 Earth owned ! his genius in its prime, 
 
 Now towers in mind's fair green-hilled clime, 
 
 Where, mist-robed, Ossian out-sings time, 
 
 An' Shakspeare smiles, 
 As Milton, murmurin' dreams sublime. 
 
 Looks earthward whiles ! 
 
 O ! hear then, Scot ! — though yet you toil 
 To fill some lordlin's loof wi' spoil. 
 Or thriving on Columbian soil, 
 
 Voursel' your lord. 
 Ne'er dim his now bright fame wi' guile 
 In thought or word !
 
 I04 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Spurn a' that's wrang, an' mak' the right 
 Your haudfast sure, stieve strong an' tight, 
 Cling there, an' ne'er let out of sight 
 
 The wants o' man, 
 But, BuRNS-like, strive his lot to light 
 
 As weel's you can. 
 
 Ne'er let vile self get grip, to twist 
 What heart or conscience dictates just ; 
 Straightforward aye act, though fate's gust 
 
 May take your breath ; — 
 The man wha fears nae face o' dust, 
 
 Needs scarce fear death. 
 
 Proud, stern, though gentle as the tone 
 Breathed through a mother's prayerfu' moan, 
 Burns scorned to snool round rank or throne, 
 
 Fause-tongued an' tame ; — 
 Till death, his heart was freedom's own ; 
 
 Be ours the same !
 
 t: 
 105 \ 
 
 ^hc 5!3arli of Song. 
 
 Written for Burns' Anniversary, iSt,4. 
 
 Robert Gilfillan. 
 
 The bard of song rose in the west, 
 
 And gladdened Coila's land, 
 The badge of fame was on his brow. 
 
 Her sceptre in his hand. 
 
 The minstrel Muse beheld her son. 
 While glory round him shone. 
 
 Walk forth to kindle with his glance 
 Whate'er he looked upon ! 
 
 She saw the green earth where he strayed 
 
 Acquire a greener hue, 
 And sunny skies high o'er his head 
 
 Assume a brighter blue. 
 
 She saw him strike his rustic harp, 
 
 In cadence wild and strong : 
 His song was of bold freedom's land — 
 
 Of Scotland was his song ! 
 7
 
 I06 THE BARD OF SONG. 
 
 He soared not 'mong aerial clouds, 
 
 Beyond the mortal ken ; 
 His song was of the moorland wild, 
 
 The happy homes of men. 
 
 Or of our battle chiefs, who rose 
 
 To his enraptured view — 
 He knelt before the Bruce's crown. 
 
 And sword that Wallace drew ! 
 
 Their deeds inspired his martial strains. 
 He marked the patriot band 
 
 Who stood, 'mid dark and stormy days, 
 The guardians of our land. 
 
 " All hail ! my son," the Muse she cried, 
 " Thy star shall ne'er decline ; 
 A deathless name, and lasting fame, 
 Shall evermore be thine ! " 
 
 Fain had she said, " and length of days," 
 But thus she boding sung — 
 " Away, away, nor longer stay. 
 
 Thy parting knell hath rung ! " 
 
 The Minstrel sighed, and from his harp 
 
 A few sad tones here fell ; 
 They told of honours — all too late. 
 
 And of his last farewell ! 
 
 They told of fame, when he no more 
 Would need a cold world's fame — 
 
 Of proud memorials to his name. 
 When he was but a name ! —
 
 THE BARD OF SONG. 107 
 
 Of pride, of contumely, and scorn — 
 
 The proud man's passing by — 
 The Minstrel left to die on earth, 
 
 Yet lauded to the sky ! 
 
 'Tis past ! — and yet there lives a voice 
 
 That thrills the chords among : 
 'Tis — Scotland's song shall be of Burns, 
 
 Who gave to Scotland song.
 
 io8 jj 
 
 The Anniversary of Robert Burns, January iSi^. 
 
 William Glen. 
 
 Come, my sweet harp, come murmur on, 
 
 Sing of my home in glorious glee ; 
 A fairer land than Caledon, 
 
 Ne'er started from a stormy sea, 
 And fling thy numbers bold and free, 
 
 To him whose notes roU'd sweet along, 
 For dear as life, as Heaven, will be 
 
 The land of freedom and of song. 
 
 Let Haffiz live in Persian strains. 
 
 Let Italy her Tasso claim. 
 Let Homer charm the Grecian plains, 
 
 His country's boast, his country's shame ; 
 Let Milton raise fair England's name. 
 
 And genius consecrate their urns ; 
 But Where's the Bard can cloud the fame 
 
 Of Scotland's pride, her darling Burns ? 
 
 Ye masters of the ancient school, 
 Ye moderns wooing genius mild,
 
 ODE. 109 
 
 Know that a Bard's not form'd by rale, 
 Bright-polish'd till the fabric's spoil'd. 
 
 O ! give me Nature's artless child, 
 Who spurns all gaudy tinsel glare, 
 
 Like him who sung his " wood-notes wild " 
 Upon the bonnie banks of Ayr. 
 
 " O ! thou pale orb," thou'st seen him stray, 
 
 By Nith's sweet winding lovely stream. 
 Giving bright fancy all its play. 
 
 Whilst gazing on thy wandering beam : 
 Thou'st mark'd with sweet diffusing gleam, 
 
 Him mourning by Lincluden towers, 
 " How life and love were all a dream," 
 
 And he confess'd their bitter powers. 
 
 Yet oft in merriment and glee, 
 
 He " set the table in a roar," 
 Wild as the wildest could he be, 
 
 And ablest wits confess'd his powers ; 
 Yet all at once could he restore 
 
 The woe-tear to the eye again, 
 Bid mirth's mad witchery charm no more, 
 
 And call to life sad sorrow's train. 
 
 Coila ! thy vales are silent now. 
 
 He's gone who all thy beauties drew, 
 Go bind on thy majestic brow, 
 
 The weeping rosemary and rue ; 
 And let the sorrow-shading yew, 
 
 Hang o'er the grave where Nature mourns. 
 And weep, sweet Coila, for I trow 
 
 You lost your brightest gem in Burns.
 
 no ODE. 
 
 "While ruin's ploughshare drives elate," 
 
 While men their fellow-mortals spurn, 
 And weeping pleasure's transient date, 
 
 Exclaims that " Man was made to mourn." 
 Or if from every rapture torn, 
 
 We sadly wail a darling maid, 
 We'll know his wae who called forlorn 
 
 On " Mary's dear departed shade." 
 
 Or when our fathers' deeds he grac'd. 
 
 Raising their deathless fame on high. 
 Bade us while every wae be trac'd. 
 
 Wail Scotland's fallen majesty ; 
 Or brought the tear-drop in our eye, 
 
 When resting on her lowly tomb, 
 And bade us heave the unconscious sigh, 
 
 When mourning hapless Mary's doom. 
 
 Whether he struck the notes of woe. 
 
 Or bade them with wild joy expand, — 
 In pleasure's tide, or sorrow's flow — 
 
 His lyre was sweet, majestic, grand : 
 He touch'd it with a master's hand. 
 
 Its heavenly tone will never die, 
 And many, many a distant land 
 
 Was charmed with his minstrelsy. 
 
 We'll lay the lyre upon his urn. 
 
 And while the moon-beams deck the plain, 
 Mayhap his spirit may return. 
 
 And sweep the trembling chords again. 
 And we may hear the fairy strain. 
 
 Float on the night-breeze down the dell — 
 Delusion all, it is in vain — 
 
 And now, sweet Bard, again farewell.
 
 Ill 
 
 Written on Visiting the House in which Robert Burns was 
 Bor7i, and the surrounding Scenery, in Azitumn, lygg. 
 
 Richard Gall. i 
 
 I 
 
 O i!UT it makes my heart fu' sair, 
 The lowly blast-worn bower to see, 
 
 Whare infant Genius wont to smile, 
 Whare brightened first the Poet's e'e ! 
 
 Burns, heavenly Bard ! 'twas here thy mind 
 Traced ilka object wildly grand ; 
 
 Here first thou caught dame Nature's fire, 
 An' snatched the pencil from her hand. 
 
 Bleak Autumn now reigns o'er these scenes, 
 The yellow leaves fa' aff the tree ; 
 
 But never shall the laurel fade, 
 
 That Scotia's Muse has twined for thee. 
 
 O Doon ! aft wad he tent thy stream. 
 Whan roaming near the flowery thorn. 
 
 An' sweetly sing " departed joys. 
 Departed never to return ! "
 
 112 VERSES. 
 
 An' near thy bonny crystal wave, 
 Reft o' its rose we find the brier, 
 
 Beneath whase shade he wont to lean, 
 An' press the cheek o' Jeanie dear. 
 
 O'er yonder heights, in simmer tide, 
 His canty whistle aften rang ; 
 
 An' this the bank, an' this the brae, 
 
 That echoed back the Ploughman's sang. 
 
 But whare is now his wonted glee. 
 That sic enchanting pleasure gave ? 
 
 Ah me ! cauld lies the Poet's head ; 
 The wintry blast howls o'er his grave ! 
 
 To ither lands the Poet's gane, 
 
 Frae which the traveller ne'er returns ; 
 
 While Nature lilts a waefu' sang, 
 
 And o'er her Shakspeare Scotia mourns.
 
 II 
 
 €oMb 5Biivb. 
 
 James Stirrat. 
 
 There's nae bard to charm us now, 
 
 Nae bard ava 
 Can sing a sang to Nature true, 
 
 Since Coila's bard's awa'. 
 
 The simple harp o" earlier days 
 
 In silence slumber's now, 
 And modern art, wi' tuneless lays 
 Presumes the Nine to woo. 
 
 But nae bard in a' our isle 
 
 Nae bard ava 
 Frae pawky Coila wins a smile 
 Since Robin gaed awa'. 
 
 His hamely style let Fashion spurn — 
 
 She wants baith taste and skill ; 
 And wiser should she ever turn. 
 She'll sing his sangs hersel'. 
 
 For nae sang sic pathos speaks 
 
 Nae sang ava ; 
 And Fashion's foreign rants and squeaks 
 Should a' be drumm'd awa'.
 
 "4 COILA'S BARD. 
 
 Her far-fetch'd figures aye maun fail 
 
 To touch the feeling heart ; 
 Simplicity's direct appeal 
 Excels sic learned art. 
 
 And nae modern minstrel's lay 
 
 Nae lay ava, 
 Sae powerfully the heart can sway, 
 As Robin's thats awa'. 
 
 For o'er his numbers Coila's muse 
 
 A magic influence breathed, 
 And roun' her darling poet's brows 
 A peerless crown had wreathed. 
 
 And nae wreath that e'er was seen, 
 
 Nae wreath ava, 
 Will bloom sae lang's the holly green 
 O' Robin that's awa'. 
 
 Let Erin's minstrel, Tommy Moore, 
 
 His lyrics sweetly sing, 
 'Twad lend his harp a higher power 
 Would Coila add a string. 
 
 For nae harp has yet been kent, 
 
 Nae harp ava. 
 To match the harp by Coila lent 
 To Robin that's awa'. 
 
 And though our shepherd, Jamie Hogg, 
 
 His pipe far sweetly plays, 
 It ne'er will charm auld Scotland's lug 
 Like ploughman Robin's lays. 
 For nae pipe will Jamie tune, 
 
 Nae pipe ava, 
 Like that which breathed by "bonnie Doon ' 
 Ere Robin gaed awa'.
 
 COILA'S BARD. 115 
 
 Even Scotland's pride, Sir Walter Scott, 
 
 Wha boldly strikes the lyre, 
 Maun yield to Robin's sweet-love note, 
 His native wit and fire. 
 
 For nae bard hath ever sung 
 
 Nae bard ava, 
 In hamely or in foreign tongue, 
 Like Robin that's awa'. 
 
 Frae feeling heart Tom Campbell's lays 
 
 In classic beauty flow, 
 But Robin's artless sangs displays 
 The saul's impassioned glow. 
 
 For nae bard by classic lore, 
 
 Nae bard ava. 
 Has thrill'd the bosom's utmost core 
 Like Robin that's awa'. 
 
 A powerfu' harp did Byron sweep, 
 
 But not wi' happy glee ; 
 And though his tones were strong and deep, 
 He ne'er could change the key. 
 For nae bard beneath the lift, 
 
 Nae bard ava, 
 Wi' master skill the keys could shift 
 Like RoiilN that's awa'. 
 
 He needs nae monumental stones 
 
 To keep alive his fame, 
 Auld Granny Scotland and her weans 
 Will ever sing his name. 
 
 For nae name does fame record, 
 
 Nae name ava. 
 By Caledonia mair ador'd 
 Than Robin's that's awa.
 
 ii6 
 
 (Skgg to the ilTcmorB of Robert 
 flints* 
 
 Alexander Balfour. 
 
 The lingering sun's last parting beam 
 On mountain tops had died away, 
 
 And night, the friend of Fancy's dream, 
 Stole o'er the fields in dusky grey ; 
 
 Tired of the busy, bustling throng, 
 I wandered forth along the vale ; 
 
 To list the widowed blackbird's song, 
 And breathe the balmy evening gale. 
 
 I leaned by Brothock's limpid tide, 
 The green birch waving o'er my head ; 
 
 While night winds through the willows sighed, 
 That wept above their watery bed ; 
 
 'Twas there the Muse without control, 
 Essayed on fluttering wings to rise ; 
 
 When listless languor seized my soul, 
 And drowsy slumbers sealed my eyes ;
 
 ELEGY. 117 
 
 In Morpheus' arms supinely laid, 
 
 My vagrant Fancy roved astray, 
 When lo ! in radiant robes arrayed, 
 
 A spirit winged its airy way. j 
 
 In dumb surprise, and solemn awe, 
 
 I wondering gazed, when by my side 
 A maid of matchless grace I saw, j 
 
 Arrayed in more than mortal pride ; i 
 
 Her eye was like the light'ning's gleam, j 
 
 That can through boundless space pervade, 
 But sorrow seemed to shade its beam. 
 
 And pallid grief her cheeks o'erspread ; 1 
 
 A flowery wreath, with bays entwined, 
 
 Fresh blooming from her girdle hung ; 
 And on the daisied bank reclined, 
 
 She touched a Harp for sadness strung : j 
 
 i 
 
 The trembling strings — the murmuring rill — 1 
 
 The hollow breeze that breathed between — J 
 
 Responsive echo from the hill — j 
 
 All joined to swell the solemn scene ! | 
 
 The maid, in accents sadly sweet, j 
 
 To sorrow gave unbounded sway ; 
 
 My fluttering heart forgot to beat, ' 
 
 While thus she poured the plaintive lay. j 
 
 i 
 
 I am the Muse of Caledon, ; 
 
 From earliest ages aye admired ; i 
 Through her most distant corners known, 
 
 Oft has my voice her sons inspired. j
 
 Ii8 ELEGY. 
 
 " My charms have fired a royal breast — 
 A King who Scotia's sceptre bore — 
 I soothed his soul, with trouble pressed, 
 When captive on a hostile shore : 
 
 '* My bays have on a Soldier's brow, 
 Amidst his verdant laurels twined ; 
 Inspired his soul with martial glow. 
 
 And called his country's wrongs to mind. 
 
 " The warblings of my Harp have won 
 A mitred Son from Holy See ; 
 Who oft from morn to setting sun, 
 Would hold a Carnival with me : 
 
 " But chief of all the tuneful train, 
 
 Was Burns — my latest — fondest care ! 
 I nursed him on his native plain ; 
 And now, his absence is — despair ! 
 
 <i 
 
 I hailed his happy natal hour, 
 And o'er his infant cradle hung ; 
 
 O'er Fancy's wild, unbounded power, 
 Or Reason's earliest bud was sprung. 
 
 •' I saw the young ideas rise 
 
 Successive in his youthful mind ; 
 Nor could the peasant's garb disguise 
 The kindling flame, that lay confined. 
 
 *• Oft have I met him on the dale. 
 
 Companion of the thoughtless throng ; 
 And led him down the dewy vale. 
 To carol o'er some artless song.
 
 ELEGY. 119 I 
 
 " Unseen by all, but him alone i 
 
 I cheered his labours through the da)' ; 1 
 
 And when the rural task was done, i 
 
 We sought some wild sequestered way ; j 
 
 " Midst Coila's hills, or woodland's wild, i 
 
 By Stinchar's banks, or Lugar's stream, ' 
 
 There would I place my darling child, i 
 
 And soothe him with some pleasing dream. I 
 
 " These haunts, to him were blissful bowers, j 
 
 Where all the soul was unconfined ; i 
 
 And Fancy called her choicest flowers, i 
 
 To warm her youtliful poet's mind. i 
 
 j 
 " Nursed on the healthful happy plains, 
 
 Where Love's first blush from Virtue springs, j 
 
 'Twas Nature taught the heartfelt strains, 1 
 That o'er the vassaled Cot he sings. 
 
 *' Keen Poverty with withered arms, j 
 
 Compressed him in her cold embrace ; i 
 
 And mental griefs, ungracious harms j 
 Had lurrowed o'er his youthful face. 
 
 " Yet there, the dear delightful flame j 
 
 Which rules the breast with boundless sway : | 
 
 Resistless fired his mellin" frame, s 
 
 And taught the love-lamenting lay. 1 
 
 I 
 " A friend to Mirth, and foe to Care, 
 
 Yet formed to feel for worth oppressed ; 
 His sympathetic soul could share 
 
 The woes that wring a brother's breast. '
 
 I20 ELEGY. 
 
 " Ah ! gentle Bard ! thy tenderest tear, 
 Was o'er a hapless orphan shed ! 
 But who shall thy sweet prattlers cheer, 
 Now that a green-turf wraps thy head ? 
 
 " He who can still the raven's voice, 
 
 And deck the lily's breast like snow, 
 Can make thy orphan train rejoice, 
 And soothe thy widow's song of woe. 
 
 " Ye souls of sympathetic mind. 
 
 When smiling Plenty deigns to crown, 
 Yours be the task their wounds to bind, 
 And make their happiness your own. 
 
 " To banish Want, and pale faced Care, 
 To wipe the tear from Misery's eye, 
 To such a bliss as Angels share, 
 And tell with joy above the sky ! 
 
 " Where are the thriUing strains of woe 
 That echoed o'er Glencairn's sad urn? 
 And where is now oppression's foe 
 
 Who taught, that ' Man was made to mourn?' 
 
 " Why when his morning calmly smiled. 
 Did Hope forebode a lengthened day? 
 My promised joys are now beguiled, 
 Since darkness hides my darling's clay ! 
 
 " Yet rest in peace, thou gentle shade ! 
 
 Although the ' narrow house ' be thine ; 
 No pious rite shall pass unpaid, 
 
 No hands unhallowed stain thy shrine.
 
 ELEGY. 121 
 
 '* The blighting breath of venomed Scorn 
 Shall harmless round thy mansion rave ; 
 Though Envy plan her poignant thorn, 
 It ne'er shall bud above thy grave. 
 
 " The stagnant soul, unmoved, may hear 
 Of w^orth, if ne'er was formed to feel ; 
 The selfish heart, with haughty sneer, 
 Unblushing, boast a breast of steel : 
 
 " Vet Sympathy, that loves to sigh, 
 And Pity, sweet celestial maid. 
 And Genius, with her eagle eye. 
 
 Shall hover round thy hallowed shade. 
 
 *' The torrent dashing down the steep. 
 The wild wave foaming far below, 
 In Nature's notes for thee shall weep, 
 With all the majesty of woe ! 
 
 '* When Winter howls across the plain, 
 And spreads a thick obscuring gloom. 
 His winds on Coila shall complain, 
 And hoarsely murmur o'er thy tomb ! 
 
 " There, virgin Spring shall first be seen, 
 To deck with flowers thy dewy bed ; 
 And Summer, robed in richest green. 
 Shall hang her roses o'er thy head. 
 
 " When Autumn calls thy fellow swains 
 (Companions now, alas ! no more !) 
 To 'reap the plenty of their plains,' 
 Their mingling sighs shall thee deplore. 
 8
 
 122 ELEGY. 
 
 " O pour a tear of tenderest woe, 
 
 Ye bards who boast congenial fire ; 
 Let sympathetic waihngs fiow, 
 And Sorrow's song attune the lyre. 
 
 " Ye warblers, flitting on the wind, 
 
 Chaunt forth your saddest plaintive strain ; 
 And weep — (for ye have lost a friend). 
 Ye little wanderers of the plain ! 
 
 " This garland, for my bard entwined, 
 No brow but his shall ever wear ; 
 Around his turf these flowers I'll bind. 
 And wet them nightly with a tear ! 
 
 " While dews descend upon his tomb, 
 
 So long the Muse shall love his name ; 
 Nor shall this wreath forget to bloom, 
 Till latest ages sing his fame. 
 
 " But still, officious friends, beware ! 
 
 Nor rashly wound my favourite's fame ; 
 O watch it with parental care ! 
 
 Stain not the hapless Minstrel's name. 
 
 " Seek not, amidst his wreath to twine 
 One verse that he himself suppressed ; 
 His offerings made at folly's shrine, 
 Let them in dark oblivion rest ! 
 
 " Ye wanderers in the wilds of song. 
 On whom I have not smiled in vain. 
 Would you the blissful hours prolong, 
 O shun seductive Pleasure's train !
 
 ELEGY. 123 
 
 " The bays that flourish round her bowers, 
 Are venomed o'er n-ith noxious dews ; 
 The thorns that lurk amidst her flowers, 
 A rankling poison oft infuse. 
 
 " Though Luxury's lap seem softly spread, 
 The couch of joy, and sweet repose, 
 Yet hissing furies, haunt her bed, 
 
 And rack the mind with keenest woes. 
 
 " The hedge-rowed plain, the flowery vale. 
 Where rosy Health delighted roves. 
 Where Labour tells his jocund tale, 
 
 And village maidens sing their loves, — 
 
 " 'Tis there the Muse unfolds her charms ; 
 From thence her sons should never stray ; 
 Ye souls M hom boundless fancy warms. 
 Still keep this calm sequestered way ; 
 
 " So may such never-dying praise, 
 As echoes o'er my darling's tomb. 
 Congenial bloom amidst your bays. 
 And Heaven bestow a happier doom ! " 
 
 She ceased her song of sorrow deep, 
 Her warbling harp was heard no more ; 
 
 I waked — and wished again to sleep — 
 But ah ! the pleasing dream was o'er. 
 
 The rustic Muse, untaught to sing, 
 
 Has marred the Vision's solemn strain ; 
 
 Too harshly touched the pensive string. 
 To soothe thy shade, lamented swain !
 
 124 ELEGY. 
 
 Unskilled to frame the venal lay 
 That flows not from a heart sincere, 
 
 'Tis mine this artless meed to pay — 
 The heart-felt sigh— and silent tear.
 
 125 
 
 Mlmt is SurccBB ? 
 
 OR 
 
 THE PHILOSOPHER AND THE PLOUGHAIAN. 
 
 Thomas C. Latto. 
 
 'MoNG the pleasant shades of Catrine 
 
 Calm, dignified and cool, 
 In his metaphysics buried, 
 
 Sat a sage of the old school. 
 Out roll'd long, ponderous periods 
 
 That fair hand scorn'd to write, 
 Which a deft amanuensis * 
 
 Sat down in black and white. 
 
 Aristotelian systems. 
 
 Vast speculations deep, 
 Despair of learned pundits, 
 
 Traversed his mental sweep ; 
 Condorcet's fine-spun theories, 
 
 Be sure he did not spare ; 
 Descartes' soap-bubble vortices 
 
 He blew into the air. 
 
 Hew Ainslie, author of " The Ingle Side," " The Rover of Loch 
 Ryan," etc. 
 
 \ 
 1 
 
 !
 
 126 WHAT IS SUCCESS ? 
 
 All passions and emotions — 
 
 Hate, joy, revenge and love — 
 He counts their pulse-beats coolly, 
 
 Through the fingers of his glove ; 
 Of " Free Will " and " Necessity," 
 
 "No" and "Eternal Yea," 
 Like Solomon he reasons 
 
 Through the long summer day. 
 
 Perchance to find the siftings 
 
 Through shadowy hopper pass'd. 
 Like the fine dust of " Willie's Mill,"* 
 
 But vanity at last. 
 Nay ! no such doubts disturb'd him, 
 
 In his complacent ease ; 
 His gnats were stately elephants ; 
 
 Fat lobsters were his fleas. 
 
 Leibnitz' "monads," quite adroitly. 
 
 He turns upon his fork ; 
 Hartley's " vibrationcles " 
 
 Dissects like tender pork ; 
 Voltaire is sharply riddled ; 
 
 E'en Mallebranche gets a hoist, 
 And grim old Hobbes of Malmesbury 
 
 Hangs dangling from a joist. 
 
 For him Encyclopaedias 
 
 Their tentacles stretch'd out, 
 
 To feel what feat in Ethics 
 Was Atticiis about. 
 
 * See " Tarn o' Shanter."
 
 WHAT IS SUCCESS? 127 
 
 While thro' the press no Dominie 
 
 His last grand sermon ran, 
 Without the Tmprimattir 
 
 Of our august savan. 
 
 He dreamt of an inheritance 
 
 Held by a tenure sure, 
 Among the Oracles of Eld 
 
 For ever to endure. 
 While flourished High Philosophy 
 
 And Plato's lore the theme, 
 The far-famed Catrine groves would bloom, 
 
 A second Academe. 
 
 There, in luxurious library, 
 
 Curtain'd with rich brocade. 
 His traps for immortality. 
 
 The bland Professor laid. 
 'Twere heartless to estop what some 
 
 A wild-goose chase might deem ; 
 Still, let the venerable sage 
 
 Indulge his waking dream. 
 
 O Dignity ! what splendours 
 
 Wait thy supreme behest ! 
 Why roll'd not / in purple 
 
 With swelling, princely crest? 
 Wealth, honours, in the vestibule, 
 
 Obsequious, bow the knee ; 
 What more needs man that's mortal 
 
 Than genial smile from thee ?
 
 128 WHAT IS SUCCESS? 
 
 Within a hovel, far away, 
 
 In a cramp'd attic loft, 
 A swarthy lad, with great black eyes 
 
 Imperiously soft ; 
 With horny hands, as daily used 
 
 To cleave the stubborn soil, 
 Scribbled in moments snatch'd by stealth 
 
 From his accustomed toil. 
 
 No stenographic aide-de-camp 
 
 Looked up to him as lord. 
 With sharpen'd quill to get his cue 
 
 Or prompt the lacking word. 
 No desk — that were appliance strange 
 
 In a bare, dingy nook- 
 No roll of crabbed manuscript. 
 
 Not e'en a tatter'd bock. 
 
 Stern, sometimes savage, was his glance, 
 
 As if he satire penn'd ; 
 Anon his dark eye beam'd with love 
 
 That few could comprehend. 
 This, too, would pass and in its place 
 
 Resolve and dauntless grit, 
 Stalks of the " carle hemp " in man 
 
 Upon his brow were writ. 
 
 Deep glow'd in those great wondrous orbs 
 
 The fire of genius true, 
 As lines that ages yet would prize 
 
 From broad-nibb'd "stumpie" flew. 
 O'er the rude table of fir deal. 
 
 He lean'd and wrote a while, 
 Then in the drawer the scrolls were flung 
 
 With half sarcastic smile.
 
 WHAT IS SUCCESS? 129 
 
 Up with his gad and off to work ; 
 
 His " fittie-lan " * that shared 
 The forenoon's darg, her oats well munched, 
 
 Is for fresh stent prepared. 
 But hark ! a light foot on the trap 
 
 Springs eager as a bird ; 
 A young lass, drawing forth the script. 
 
 Devours it every word. 
 
 His only sister ! who but she 
 
 Who knows she there will find 
 The graphic pictures, genius-born, 
 
 Sparks of a noble mind. 
 Entranced, an hour she whiles away ; 
 
 With pride her heart rebounds, 
 Till summon'd by the mother's voice 
 
 To her domestic rounds. 
 
 There is a debt that presses sore. 
 
 Enquire not of the cause. 
 And debts have never yet been paid 
 
 By country-folks' applause. 
 The songs appear in "gude black prent/' 
 
 "Wee Johnnie " t waves his wand ; 
 Within a month that ploughman lad 
 
 Towers foremost of the land. 
 
 To fair Edina's shrine he wends 
 
 Odd mart to earn his meal ; — 
 And — as is meet — the letter'd sage 
 
 Must see the "ploughman chiel." 
 
 The nearer horse of the hendmost pair at the plough — the leader, 
 t John Wilson, Printer, Kilmarnock.
 
 I30 WHAT IS SUCCESS? 
 
 The " braid claith " meets the " hodden gray " 
 
 And, not incurious, views 
 The hob-nailed lion of the day — 
 
 Last item of the "News." 
 
 With glance at the bucolic youth, 
 
 Brimful of cautions wise, 
 As Zeus might on a linnet look, 
 
 With calm majestic eyes. 
 The Doctor condescends advise. 
 
 With mild Mecenas air. 
 To him of whom the peopled globe 
 
 Has now assumed the care. 
 
 Then creeps the Bard back to his den, 
 
 To feel and know, in sooth, 
 What bitterness 'tis to bemoan 
 
 A sad unfriended youth ; — 
 The cup dashed from his longing lips. 
 
 That, in rare hours of glee. 
 When "rantin' round in Pleasure's ring '' 
 
 He never thought to " pree." 
 
 Noiv, where the sage ? the rustic, where ? 
 
 Strangely their lot has changed. 
 Since by the furzy braes of Braid 
 
 At morning hour they ranged. 
 For recognition only marks 
 
 The philosophic name. 
 Because it chanced to cross the disk 
 
 Of Burns' immortal fame.
 
 131 
 
 5Burns. 
 
 William Murray. 
 
 Illustrious poets lived and sang before 
 
 King Robin warbles. Stirring strains in streams. 
 From his own land alone, subdued the roar 
 
 Of bigot's ban and sacerdotal screams. 
 Before and after him, old Scotland's glens 1 
 
 Have echoed with successions of sweet song, 
 Which Scotland's rocks and rivers, braes and bens, 
 
 In grateful sympathy and love prolong. 
 But Burns, ablaze in wide Creation's eye, 1 
 
 Outshines all rivals, Jove-like in his mould, \ 
 
 He glows with equal splendour far or nigh. 
 
 And still will radiate when Creation's cold. 
 The more the marvel of his Muse we measure. 
 The more he fills us with perpetual pleasure.
 
 132 
 
 ^hc $3irthphtcc of yvcrbert ^urns. 
 
 Robert G. Ingersoll. 
 
 Though Scotland boasts a thousand names 
 
 Of patriot, king, and peer, 
 The noblest, grandest of them^all 
 
 Was loved and cradled here. 
 Here lived the gentle peasant prince, 
 
 The loving cotter-king. 
 Compared with whom the greatest lord 
 
 Is but a titled thing. 
 
 'Tis but a cot roofed in with straw, 
 
 A hovel made of clay ; 
 One door shuts out the snow and storm, 
 
 One window greets the day ; 
 And yet I stand within this room 
 
 And hold all thrones in scorn. 
 For here, beneath this lowly thatch. 
 
 Love's sweetest bard was born. 
 
 Within this hallowed hut I feel 
 
 Like one who clasps a shrine, 
 When the glad lips, at last, have touched 
 
 The something deemed divine ! 
 And here the world, through all the years, 
 
 As long as day returns. 
 The tribute of its love and tears 
 
 Will pay to Robert Burns !
 
 133 
 
 Jl i3oct iiinq. 
 
 Written for the Inaiiguration of the Glasgoiv Burns' Statue, 
 which was unveiled by Lord Houghton on the sjth of 
 January, i8yy. 
 
 John Macfarlane. 
 
 What meaneth this wild commotion ? 
 
 Why surgeth the crowd along? 
 'Tis the natal day of a poet king, 
 
 The chief of Scottish song ; 
 And lo ! they come in thousands 
 
 From mountain and strath and glen, 
 As free in soul as the air they breathe, 
 
 To honour a Saul of men. 
 
 And grandly, hark ! is ringing 
 
 On the silv'ry streams of day, 
 The rank is but of the coin the stamp, 
 
 The man's the gold for aye." 
 No'Iyric dream is this, 
 
 To thrill with its magic thrall, 
 No fancy caught from the wilds of thought, 
 
 But a cry from the hearts of all. 
 
 The soul of manhood leaps 
 In the toil-encircled throng,
 
 134 A POET KING. 
 
 They shake the earth with their bounding tread, 
 
 For he hath made them strong ; 
 For wreathed with the light of genius, 
 
 The labour-warrior stands, 
 And the bulwarks e'en of a throne might fall 
 
 If smote by his horny hands. 
 
 And the blinded god of Mammon, 
 
 Hath paled at the minstrel's name, 
 And a shiver hath passed to his crusted soul 
 
 'Neath the blaze of the heavenly flame ; 
 The tyrant with gloom in his heart. 
 
 And the brand of Cain on his brow. 
 Like a craven quakes in his white-lipp'd fear, 
 
 At the gleaming of Freedom now. 
 
 The shroud of the past hath vanished, 
 
 And the mighty-given-of-God, 
 Looms forth entranced with the meanest flower, 
 
 That springs from the verdant sod ; 
 Oh ! wildly impassioned spirit ! 
 
 In the throes of thy great unrest, 
 Thou gavest the golden chalice of Thought, 
 
 But we called for the ribald jest. 
 
 The stamp of the mind unfettered. 
 
 The smile and the orbed fire. 
 No magic touch to the image brings. 
 
 We garnish a broken lyre : 
 But scarr'd with the fight of ages, 
 
 TriumjDhantly Scotia turns. 
 With a queenly glance of pride in her eyes. 
 
 To gaze on her laureate Burns,
 
 'J5 
 
 flantiit' fiobiit. 
 
 A Song for Burns's Anniversary. 
 
 A. H. WiNGFIELD. 
 
 We've met this nicht in honour o' Auld Scotia's peasant 
 
 bard, 
 The' mony years has past since he has gone to his reward. 
 Ilk twenty-fifth o' Jan'wary we roose the '" ihackit cot," 
 An' drink to Robin's mem'ry in a wee drappie o't. 
 
 The saintly cynic whiles may sneer at Robert Burns's 
 
 name, 
 The cantin' hypocrite may jeer an' cry out "fie for shame," 
 But let them jeer, an' let them sneer, there's no ae honest 
 
 Scot 
 But pledges Rantin' Robin in a wee drappie o't. 
 
 His " lilts upon the doric lyre " has pleased baith great an' 
 
 sma'. 
 His " Cotter's Saturday at e'en " has often charm'd us a' ; 
 The "Daisy" crush 'd amang the stoor, the "thistle's" 
 
 jaggie coat, 
 An' "peck o' maut" frae whilk he preed, the wee drappie o't. 
 
 'Twas he wha said — wi' reason for't — that " man was made 
 
 to mourn," 
 'Twas he wha sang sae nobly o' the Bruce o' Bannockburn,
 
 136 RANTIN' ROBIN. 
 
 'Twas he wha proved "a man's a man," tho' poortith be 
 
 his lot, 
 If honest, the' he whiles may tak' a wee drappie o't. 
 
 O sweet he sang o' " Bonnie Doon " an' witchin' " Hallow- 
 
 e en, 
 O " Corn rigs, an' shorn rigs," o' " Mary " an' o' "Jean " ; 
 The "Limpin' hare," the "Haggis" rare an' "Jenny's" 
 
 luckless lot, 
 The reamin' horn on New- Year's morn, an' wee drappie o't. 
 
 " Should auld acquaintance be forgot ? " ah no, we'll never 
 
 tine. 
 Our love for BURNS it's woven in our hearts wi' "Auld 
 
 Langsyne." 
 The ae best fellow e'er was born, the independent Scot, 
 Wha sang auld Scotia's howes an' knowes, an' wee drappie 
 
 o't. 
 
 On " a' the airts the win' can blaw" will Robin's fame be 
 
 borne. 
 In spite o' they who try to baud his mem'ry up to scorn. 
 While surges roar o'er Berwick-law he ne'er will he forgot, 
 Or Tintock's cap contains a drap— a wee drappie o't.
 
 137 
 
 ^0 the iYtemorn of 53urns. 
 
 Read at a Meeting held in Commemoration of the 
 Poet's Birth. 
 
 Francis Bennoch. 
 
 Immortal Bard ! — immortal Burns ! 
 
 The patriot and the prince of song, 
 When friends are met shall they forget 
 
 The honours which to thee belong ? 
 Immortal Burns ! 
 
 In every land where truth is known, 
 The music of thy god-like mind 
 
 In strains of melting love hath flown 
 To fraternize the human kind, 
 Immortal Burns ! 
 
 Thy lays have sear'd the tyrant's heart 
 Like flaming bars of hottest steel, 
 
 But raised the poor to know their right 
 To think as men, — as men to feel, — 
 Immortal Burns ! 
 
 When light and hope, and reason die. 
 And darkness shrouds the face of day, 
 9
 
 138 TO THE MEMORY OF BURNS. 
 
 And all things fade, — O, only then 
 Shall Scotland's Bard in fame decay. 
 Immortal Burns ! 
 
 With reverent silence we will fill 
 A cup whene'er this day returns, 
 
 And pledge the memory of the Bard, 
 The Bard of Nature — Robert Burns. 
 Immortal Burns !
 
 139 
 
 Jlbliress to ^Ourns, 
 
 James D. Crichton. 
 
 The circling wheels of Time have roU'd, 
 
 And brings the fatal day again, 
 When Death's dark wings swoop'd to enfold 
 
 Thy spirit — king of men ! 
 No idle pomp thy kinghood mock'd — 
 
 A peasant father's hope and joy ; 
 A peasant dame the cradle rock'd 
 
 That held her black-eyed boy. 
 
 Storm mark'd thy entrance into life, 
 
 Wild blew the blast that Januar' morn, 
 Symbolic of turmoil and strife 
 
 To which the babe was born. 
 Grim poverty and sad-eyed care, 
 
 Twin sisters, stood beside thy cot ; 
 They look'd on their unconscious heir, 
 
 And dowered him with their lot. 
 
 It was not in baronial hall 
 
 Or mansion proud that thou was't bred, 
 A cottar's shieling poor and small 
 
 Sheltered thy infant head.
 
 140 ADDRESS TO BURNS. 
 
 But there were virtues 'neath that roof 
 Gracing but rarely loftier rank, 
 
 There evil met with stern reproof, 
 Good, recognition frank. 
 
 There when the toilsome day was sped 
 
 The family cluster'd round the board, 
 The Holy Book by turns they read 
 
 With Wisdom's teachings stor'd ; 
 And when the evening psalm was sung 
 
 The peasant father, old and gray. 
 Surrounded by his children young 
 
 Knelt humbly down to pray. 
 
 The lessons that he taught thee then 
 
 Were not forgot in manhood's prime, 
 Though happily he might not ken 
 
 Grave errors of that time ; 
 But when that father was no more. 
 
 Thou shouldering brave the heavy load, 
 Toil'd to augment the children's store. 
 
 And with them worshipp'd God ! 
 
 Hard task to cleave the stubborn soil 
 
 That barely might a pittance yield. 
 And make a golden harvest smile 
 
 Above a barren field. 
 Lochlea thy patient struggles saw, 
 
 Tasking thy strength both late and air, 
 And Mossgiel's wind-swept upland raw 
 
 Thy hour of dark despair ! 
 
 Yet there were raptures known to thee 
 When friends were powerless to condole,
 
 ADDRESS TO BURNS. 141 
 
 That cheer'd thy breast in penury 
 
 And charm'd thy poet-soul. 
 For while thy ploughshare turn'd the sod 
 
 The hovering Muse benignly smil'd. 
 And with the best gift sent from God 
 
 Dower'd her wayward child. 
 
 'Twas her word oped that inner eye, 
 
 And visions fill'd thy teeming brain. 
 Thrilling thy soul with ecstasy 
 
 Almost akin to pain. 
 'Twas her touch loos'd thy tongue to sing, 
 
 While grandeur look'd askance with scorn, 
 Till all who heard its accents ring 
 
 Hail'd a new poet born ! 
 
 Well didst thou love fair Nature's face 
 
 ( For everything to thee was good), 
 And in thy verse rejoice to trace 
 
 Her every changing mood. 
 Nothing was common in thy sight, 
 
 And nought escap'd thy eagle ken 
 That rang'd from red-tipp'd daisies bright 
 
 To dogs and mice and men. 
 
 Hast thou not painted for all time 
 
 The lovely scenes where thou didst dwell, 
 Till natives of a tropic clime 
 
 Know Burns' haunts so well — 
 The " banks and braes " of winding Doon, 
 
 Whose waters glass the drooping birk, 
 Auld Ayr's " twa brigs" and ancient "toon," 
 
 And Alloway's haunted kirk ?
 
 142 ADDRESS TO BURNS. 
 
 How warmly glow'd the sacred fire 
 
 Of patriot fervour in thy breast, 
 Dear Scotland's praises to inspire 
 
 And give them added zest. 
 Lo ! Freedom there her altar rear'd — 
 
 Where could she find a nobler shrine ? 
 And lit her torch by despots fear'd 
 
 At that pure flame divine ! 
 
 Deep is the debt we owe of praise 
 
 To^thee, who with enchanter's wand 
 Reviv'd in purer form the lays 
 
 Of thy dear native land. 
 When Scotia takes her place beside 
 
 The cultur'd nations of to-day, 
 She points to thee, with grateful pride. 
 
 The bard of " Scots wha hae ! " 
 
 O sorcerer of mighty skill 
 
 What glamour was it thine to cast. 
 To waken love's delirious thrill, 
 
 And hold it firm and fast ? 
 For while thy genius kept spell-bound 
 
 The sober, philosophic mind. 
 Thy lighter hours with love were crown'd. 
 
 And woman aye was kind. 
 
 As butterfly from flower to flower, 
 
 So thou from love to love didst flit, 
 Each fancy had its passing hour, 
 
 Each hour its fever-fit. 
 Yet amid recklessness and sin. 
 
 How much surviv'd of pure and good, 
 That promis'd higher meed to win 
 
 By nobler paths pursued ?
 
 ADDRESS TO BURNS. 143 
 
 O bright was that brief day of love 
 
 When Highland Mary cross'd thy way, 
 And wander'd with thee through the grove 
 
 The "lee-lang simmer-day." 
 True was the mutual love ye swore, 
 
 Dipping your hands into the stream : 
 Raptures alas ! too quickly o'er, 
 
 Sad waking from thy dream ! 
 
 But first and last and nobly best, 
 
 Of all the flames thy bosom knew, 
 Was Jean's affection pure and blest, 
 
 Thy wife, so meek and true. 
 Constant and calm its ray would burn 
 
 W^hile thou wert heedless straying far. 
 She knew thy wandering heart would turn 
 
 Back to its guiding star ! 
 
 'Twas " thoughtless follies " laid thee low. 
 
 Thine own apology is best ; 
 And we who read thy verse may know 
 
 These follies self-confess'd. 
 Then let us gently o'er them pass, 
 
 For who of erring mortals can 
 The first stone cast at one who was 
 
 Not more, nor less, than man ? 
 
 Thou needst not fear thy fame will die ! 
 
 While blood in Scottish veins runs hot 
 Thy verse we'll hold in memory, 
 
 Thy faults alone forgot. 
 For nobler name was ne'er inscrib'd 
 
 On Roman cinerary urns 
 Of king or bard — a nation's pride — 
 
 Than thy name— Robert Burns !
 
 144 ADDRESS TO BURNS. 
 
 The century has well nigh flown, 
 
 And finds us honouring now as then, 
 And thou hast only dearer grown 
 
 To thy fond countrymen. 
 Still king of men and bards thou art, 
 
 O Burns ! thou needst not fear eclipse. 
 True poesy rooted in thy heart 
 
 And blossom'd on thy lips !
 
 145 
 
 ^0 the ilTcmonj of fiobcvt 56unt5. 
 
 Edward Rushton. 
 
 Poor, wildly sweet uncultur'd flower, 
 Thou lowliest of the Muse's bow'r, 
 " Stern ruin's ploughshare, 'mang the stowre, 
 Has crushed thy stem," 
 And sorrowing verse shall mark the hour, 
 " Thou bonnie gem." 
 
 'Neath the green turf, dear Nature's child. 
 
 Sublime, pathetic, artless, wild, 
 
 Of all thy quips and cranks despoil'd, 
 
 Cold dost thou lie ; 
 And many a youth and maiden mild 
 
 Shall o'er thee sigh. 
 
 Those pow'rs that eagle-wing'd could soar. 
 That heart which ne'er was cold before, 
 That tongue which caus'd the table roar. 
 
 Are now laid low, 
 And Scotia's sons shall hear no more 
 
 Thy rapt'rous flow. 
 
 Warm'd with " a spark o' Nature's fire," 
 From the rough plough thou didst aspire 
 To make a sordid world admire ; 
 
 And few like thee. 
 Oh, Burns ! have swept the minstrel's lyre 
 
 With ecstacy.
 
 146 TO THE MEMORY OF BURNS. 
 
 Ere winter's icy vapours fail, 
 The violet in the uncultur'd dale, 
 So sweetly scents the passing gale, 
 
 That shepherd boys, 
 Led by the fragrance they inhale, 
 
 Soon find their prize. 
 
 So when to life's chill glens confin'd, 
 Thy rich, tho' rough untutor'd mind, 
 Pour'd on the sense of each rude hind 
 
 Such sonsie lays. 
 That to thy brow was soon assign'd 
 
 The wreath of praise. 
 
 Anon, with nobler daring blest, 
 
 The wild notes throbbing in thy breast. 
 
 Of friends, wealth, learning unpossess'd, 
 
 Thy fervid mind 
 Tow'rds Fame's proud turrets boldly press'd, 
 
 And pleased mankind. 
 
 But what avail'd thy pow'rs to please, 
 When want approach'd, and pale disease ; 
 Could these thy infant brood appease 
 
 That wail'd for bread ? 
 • Or could they, for a moment, ease 
 
 Thy woe- worn head ? 
 
 Applause, poor child of minstrelsy. 
 Was all the world e'er gave to thee ; 
 Unmov'd, by pinching penury 
 
 They saw thee torn, 
 And now, kind souls ! with sympathy, 
 
 Thy loss they mourn.
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF BURNS. 147 
 
 Oh ! how I loathe the bloated train, 
 
 Who oft had heard thy dulcet strain ; 
 
 Yet, when thy frame was rack'd with pain. 
 
 Could keep aloof, 
 And eye with opulent disdain 
 
 Thy lowly roof. 
 
 Yes, proud Dumfries, oh ! would to heaven 
 Thou hadst from that cold spot been driven. 
 Thou might'st have found some shelt'ring haven 
 
 On this side Tweed : — 
 Yet, ah ! e'en here, poor bards have striven. 
 
 And died in need. 
 
 True genius scorns to flatter knaves. 
 Or crouch amidst a race of slaves ; 
 His soul, while fierce the tempest raves. 
 
 No tremour knows. 
 And with unshaken nerve he braves 
 
 Life's pelting woes. 
 
 No wonder, then, that thou should'st find 
 Th' averted glance of half mankind ; 
 Should'st see the sly, slow, supple mind 
 
 To wealth aspire, 
 While scorn, neglect, and want combin'd 
 
 To quench thy fire. 
 
 While wintry winds pipe loud and strong, 
 The high-perch'd storm-cock pours his song ; 
 So thy yEolian lyre was strung 
 
 'Midst chilling times ; 
 Yet clearly didst thou roll along 
 
 Thy "roulh of rhymes."
 
 148 TO THE MEMORY OF BURNS. 
 
 And oh ! that routh of rhymes shall raise 
 For thee a lasting pile of praise. 
 Haply some wing, in these our days, 
 
 Has loftier soar'd : 
 But from the heart more melting lays 
 
 Were never pour'd. 
 
 Where Ganges rolls his yellow tide, 
 Where blest Columbus' waters glide, 
 Old Scotia's sons, spread far and wide, 
 
 Shall oft rehearse, 
 With sorrow some, but all with pride, 
 
 Thy 'witching verse. 
 
 In early spring, thy earthly bed 
 
 Shall be with many a wild flow'r spread ; 
 
 The violet there her sweets shall shed, 
 
 In humble guise. 
 And there the mountain-daisy's head 
 
 Shall duly rise. 
 
 While darkness reigns, should bigotry, 
 With boiling blood, and bended knee, 
 Scatter the weeds of infamy 
 
 O'er thy cold clay. 
 Those weeds, at light's first blush, shall be 
 
 Soon swept away. 
 
 And when thy scorners are no more. 
 The lonely glens, and sea-beat shore, 
 Where thou hast croon'd thy fancies o'er 
 
 With soul elate. 
 Oft shall the bard at eve explore. 
 
 And mourn thy fate.
 
 149 
 
 flobert ^urns. 
 
 ( Written for the Centennial Celebration of i8jg. ) 
 
 Evan MacColl. 
 
 So many minstrels known to fame 
 
 Have made sweet Coila's bard their theme, 
 
 That Hke an oft-told tale may seem 
 
 All /can sing of Robin. 
 Yet be his cairn however high, 
 No Scot can mutely pass it by ; 
 The tribute of a song and sigh 
 
 Let's therefore give to Robin. 
 
 His was the true poetic art 
 
 To sing directly from the heart : 
 
 To waken mirth, or tears to start, 
 
 No mortal matches RoiilN ! 
 Now gently flow his thoughts along, 
 Now, like a rushing river strong, 
 A very cataract of song 
 
 Resistless is our Robin ! 
 
 The sun not aye unclouded shines ; 
 There's dross within earth's richest mines ;- 
 Rob had his faults, and grave divines 
 Oft shook their heads at Robin.
 
 ISO ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 A lassie " coming through the rye " 
 Unkissed, he never could pass by ; 
 Nor can I blame him much, for why, 
 The lasses all loved Robin ! 
 
 Rob loved to speak the truth right down, 
 No matter who might smile or frown ; 
 A rascal, be he king or clown, 
 
 No mercy had from Robin. 
 His sympathies — hoR- dread to tell ! 
 Embraced all being— Nick Rimsel' — 
 Yes, pity for the very de'il, 
 
 No sin or shame thought Robin. 
 
 I see him with scorn-flashing eyes 
 Detect "a cuif " in lordly guise ; 
 To see was to denounce— despise : 
 
 " A man's a man," quoth RoBIN ! 
 Hold, honest Labour, up thy head. 
 And point with pride to Robin dead ; 
 The halo round thy path he shed 
 
 Immortal is as Robin, 
 
 Alas, that not till they are lost 
 The gifts that we should value most 
 Are rightly prized ! To Scotland's cost, 
 
 Thus fared it with her Robin. 
 Yet may she glory loud and long 
 To know, of all earth's sons of song, 
 The most world-honoured of the throng 
 
 Is Coila's matchless Robin !
 
 151 
 
 0n the 5)catlt of 5Bunt0. 
 
 Mrs. Grant of Laggan. 
 
 What adverse fate awaits the tuneful train ? 
 Has Otway died and Spencer liv'd in vain ? 
 In vain has Collins, Fancy's pensive child, 
 Pour'd his lone plaints by Avon's windings wild ? 
 And Savage, on Misfortune's bosom bred, 
 Bar'd to the howling storm his houseless head ? 
 Who gentle Shenstone's fate can hear unmoved, 
 P.y virtue, elegance, and genius lov'd ? 
 Yet, pensive wand'ring o'er his native plain. 
 His plaints confess'd he lov'd the Muse in vain. 
 Chill penury invades his favourite bower, 
 Blasts every scene, and withers every flower ; 
 His warning Muse to Prudence turn'd her strain, 
 But Prudence sings to thoughtless bards in vain ; 
 Still restless fancy drives them headlong on 
 With dreams of wealth, and friends, and laurels won- 
 On ruin's brink they sleep, and wake undone ! 
 And see where Caledonia's genius mourns, 
 And plants the holly round the grave of Burns ! 
 But late " its polished leaves and berries red 
 Play'd graceful round the rural Poet's head ;" 
 And while with manly force and native fire 
 He wak'd the genuine Caledonian lyre, 
 Tweed's severing flood exulting heard her tell,
 
 152 ON THE DEATH OF BURNS. 
 
 Not Roman wreaths the holly could excel ; 
 
 Not Tiber's stream, along Campania's plain, 
 
 More pleas'd, convey'd the gay Horaiian strain, 
 
 Than bonnie Doon, or fairy-haunted Ayr, 
 
 That wont his rustic melody to share. 
 
 Resound along their banks the pleasing theme. 
 
 Sweet as their murmurs, copious as their stream : 
 
 And Ramsay, once the Horace of the North, 
 
 Who charm'd with varied strains the listening Forth, 
 
 Bequeath'd to him the shrewd peculiar art 
 
 To satire nameless graces to impart, 
 
 To wield her weapons with such sportive ease, 
 
 That, while they wound, they dazzle and they please 
 
 But when he sung to the attentive plain 
 
 The humble virtues of the patriarch swain, 
 
 His evening worship, and his social meal. 
 
 And all a parent's pious heart can feel ; 
 
 To genuine worth we bow submissive down. 
 
 And wish the Cottar's lowly shed our own : 
 
 With fond regard our native land we view, 
 
 Its cluster'd hamlets, and its mountains blue, 
 
 Our " virtuous populace," a nobler boast 
 
 Than all the wealth of either India's coast. 
 
 Yet while our hearts with admiration burn. 
 
 Too soon we learn that "man was made to mourn." 
 
 The independent wish, the taste refin'd, 
 
 Bright energies of the superior mind, 
 
 And feeling's generous pangs, and fancy's glow. 
 
 And all that liberal nature could bestow, 
 
 To him profusely given, yet given in vain ; 
 
 Misfortune aids and points the stings of pain. 
 
 How blest, when wand'ring by his native Ayr, 
 
 He woo'd " the willing Muse," unknown to care ! 
 
 But when fond admiration spread his name,
 
 ON THE DEATH OF BURNS. 153 
 
 A candidate for fortune and for fame, 
 
 In evil hour he left the tranquil shade 
 
 Where youth and love with hope and fancy play'd ; 
 
 Yet rainbow colours gild the novel scene, 
 
 Deceitful fortune sweetly smil'd like Jean ; 
 
 Now courted oft by the licentious gay, 
 
 With them through devious paths behold him stray ; 
 
 The opening rose conceals the latent thorn, 
 
 Convivial hours prolong'd awake the morn, 
 
 Even reason's sacred pow'r is drown'd in wine, 
 
 And genius lays her wreath on folly's shrine ; 
 
 Too sure, alas ! the world's unfeeling train 
 
 Corrupt the simple manners of the swain ; 
 
 The blushing muse indignant scorns his lays, 
 
 And fortune frowns, and honest fame decays, 
 
 Till low on earth he lays his sorrowing head. 
 
 And sinks untimely 'midst the vulgar dead ! 
 
 Yet while for him, belov'd, admir'd in vain, 
 
 Thus fond regret pours forth her plaintive strain. 
 
 While fancy, feeling, taste, their griefs rehearse, 
 
 And deck with artless tears his mournful hearse, 
 
 See cunning, dulness, ignorance, and pride. 
 
 Exulting o'er his grave in triumph ride, 
 
 And boast, "tho' genius, humour, wit agree," 
 
 Cold selfish prudence far excels the three ; 
 
 Nor think, while groveling on the earth they go. 
 
 How few can mount so high to fall so low. 
 
 Thus Vandals, Goths, and Huns, exulting come, 
 
 T' insult the ruins of majestic Rome. 
 
 But ye who honour genius — sacred beam ! 
 
 From holy light a bright elherial gleam, 
 
 Ye whom his happier verse has taught to glow, 
 
 Now to his ashes pay the debt you owe, 
 
 Draw pity's veil o'er his concluding scene, 
 
 And let the stream of bounty flow for Jean ! 
 
 10
 
 154 ON THE DEATH OF BURNS. 
 
 The mourning matron and her infant train, 
 
 Will own you did not love the muse in vain, 
 
 While sympathy with liberal hand appears, 
 
 To aid the orphan's wants, and dry the widow's tears !
 
 155 
 
 Stanzas 
 
 Writteti on a Copy of the Engraving of Robert Burns 
 from Taylor'' s lately recovered Pictttre. 
 
 Thomas Atkinson. 
 
 And this was Scotland's noblest son of song ! 
 
 How calm his mien — how sadly still his look ! 
 Wliere be the flashes, bright and brief, yet strong, 
 
 Of mirth that revels, though the wise rebuke ? 
 
 Tell me, thou limner, in what sacred nook 
 Of this expanse of chasten'd countenance, 
 
 There lurk'd the gibe and jest which often shook 
 The stolid crowd — in wit's omnipotence? 
 Why live not these in this — and where their recompense? 
 
 Lurks the rich treasure in that placid gaze — 
 
 In the deep meaning of those full-orb'd eyes — 
 In the veil'd lustre which, as through a haze 
 
 Of mellowing beauty, meekly lifts the guise 
 
 Of mere humanity, and shows what lies 
 In the far chambers of the soul still kept? 
 
 It does ! — it does ! — and O ! more dear I prize 
 The soft, yet manly sadness that hath ciept 
 O'er this, than would I all the heights by art o'erleapt.
 
 156 STANZAS. 
 
 Look ! what a brow soars o'er these arched spells. 
 That fix my gaze, they look so sad on me ! 
 
 See ! where hid meaning into language swells 
 Upon these lips, that seem as tremblingly 
 To heave, as leaves upon a wind-woo'd tree ! 
 
 Yet prophet power hath touch'd them with its fire ; 
 With burning balm love dew'd them thrillingly ! 
 
 Have they not blazed, like lightning on a pyre. 
 
 As from them flash'd the words that speak a patriot's ire ? 
 
 O ! it is deeply true — no transient glance 
 
 Can tell the meaning of the Poet's look ; 
 For who will say, who on one mood may chance 
 
 To wondering gaze, that he hath not mistook 
 
 The hue the moment's inspiration took ; 
 For the deep shadows that from others hide 
 
 The broken hopes, the soul's self-urged rebuke, 
 Which in his breast for ever might abide, 
 Converting into gall, dear Burns ! thy heart's warm tide !
 
 157 
 
 liEritUn for 50uvns' .Jlnnibcrjsarj). 
 
 Robert Allan. 
 
 When Januar's winds sae fiercely blaw, I 
 
 An' drive alang the drifting snaw, | 
 
 It's roun' the ingle then we ca' ! 
 
 The merry tales o' RoBlN. 
 We vow he was a man o' worth, 
 The pride an' honour o' the north ; 
 An' though he's cauld now i' the earth 
 
 We think aye weel o' Robin. 
 
 We canna turn a page or twa, ; 
 
 But on a line or verse we'll fa' 
 That's dear to Caledonia, 
 
 An' worthy aye o' Robin. j 
 
 His vera name, it is a charm j 
 
 That a' our hearts at ance can warm : \ 
 
 The deil be on them that wad harm 
 
 The memory o' Robin ! 
 
 The ploughman whistling at his plough, 
 
 The mountain daisy wat wi' dew, I 
 
 The blythe birds sporting on the bough, i 
 
 Inspired the heart o' Robin.
 
 158 WRITTEN FOR BURNS' ANNIVERSARY. 
 
 Fond lovers 'neath the milk-white thorn, 
 The farmer by his waving corn, 
 The dewy eve, the dawning morn, 
 Aye cheered the heart o' ROBIN. 
 
 Sae ready wi' his jokes an' rhymes, 
 Lord help them that were read in crimes ! 
 The vera priests themselves betimes 
 
 Wad Stan' in awe o' Robin : 
 An' mair for token, let me tell, 
 He didna spare the deil himsel'. 
 But tauld him a' his fauts pell-mell, — 
 
 He ne'er met ane like Robin. 
 
 What he has dune in prose an' verse 
 W^e are na fit here to rehearse ; 
 Sam Johnson wad o' words be scarce 
 
 To sing the praise o' ROBIN. 
 O' poets Scotland has her share. 
 An' some o' pith and spirit rare. 
 But where's the ane that can compare 
 
 Wi' our immortal Robin ? 
 
 Let monuments, by men o' art. 
 An' pillars up like mushrooms start. 
 There's nae mausoleum like the heart 
 
 That thinks aye weel o' Robin : 
 Sae let us a' in merry tune, 
 Wi' hearts life's ills an' cares aboon, 
 Here drink ance mair, as aft we've dune. 
 
 The memory o' Robin.
 
 159 
 
 ^hought0 
 
 On Visiting the Grave of Burns. 
 
 Alexander Maclaggan. 
 
 The loud voice of a stormy e'en 
 Came raving to our cottage pane ; 
 The cottar bodies closed their een 
 
 In sleep, to shun 
 Dreigh sights, that they a' day had seen 
 
 Deface the sun. 
 
 Unmindfu' o' the raging blast, — 
 Though heaven to earth was fa'in' fast,— 
 O'er hill, an' heath, an' field I pass'd 
 
 By eerie turns, 
 To view the dark — the lone — the last 
 
 Abode of Burns. 
 
 The grave of Burns ! a throne of state ! 
 Revered, though mouldering desolate ! 
 I cursed fell poortith's hapless fate 
 
 And quick decay. 
 As musing on the " furrow's weight " 
 
 That o'er him lay.
 
 i6o THOUGHTS. 
 
 His morn of life in darkness rose, 
 
 But darker still its dreary close ; 
 
 I' the space between, unnumber'd woes 
 
 Were on him hurled ; 
 Yet, from his darkness, light arose 
 
 That glads the world. 
 
 O, matchless Burns ! that I'd been livin' 
 When the power o' sang to thee was given, 
 And seen, when misery had riven 
 
 Thy manly form, 
 Thy soul, the undying gift of Heaven, 
 
 Defy the storm ! 
 
 Or seen thee in a calmer hour, 
 
 WTien o'er thee bent the blooming bower ; 
 
 Or gazing on the crimson flower. 
 
 The daisy fair, 
 And heard thee bless the Almighty power 
 
 Who placed it there : 
 
 Or seen thee in a lonely shade, 
 Fast wrapping in the rustic plaid 
 Thy Mary — dear departed maid ! 
 
 In fond embrace. 
 And mark'd the game fond passion played 
 
 Upon thy face : 
 
 Or seen thee in thy hours o' glee, 
 Wild, bold, and witty, frank and free, 
 Keen joining on the flowery lea 
 
 The rustic dance. 
 And watchin' frae Jean's lowing e'e 
 
 Love's kindling glance !
 
 THOUGHTS. i6i 
 
 Or seen thee by the ingle-nook, 
 When wi' thy jest the biggin' shook ; 
 Or stalkin' by the oaten stook, 
 
 Frae man afar, 
 When heavenward went thy passionate look 
 
 To the " lingering star." 
 
 Many are they who would aspire 
 To wake again thy sleeping lyre, 
 Wasting their breath to blow a fire, 
 
 To burn like thine ; 
 But black I see them all expire 
 
 Before thy shrine ! 
 
 Burns ! might I live again to see 
 
 A bard among us like to thee, 
 
 My heart's best thanks I glad would gie 
 
 To God, the giver — 
 Then in contentment close my e'e. 
 
 To sleep forever.
 
 l62 
 
 Song 
 
 For the Anmversa>y of the Birth-Day of Robert Burns. 
 
 Andrew Park, 
 
 Brave Scotland — Freedom's throne on earth !- 
 
 A bumper to thy glory ; 
 This day thy matchless Bard had birth, 
 
 So famed in song and story. 
 Where'er thy mountain-sons may stray, 
 
 Thou'st thrown thy magic round them, 
 And on this ever-hallow'd day, — 
 
 In kindred love hast bound them. 
 
 He nobly walk'd behind his plough. 
 
 And gazed entranced on Nature ; 
 While genius graced his lofty brow, 
 
 And play'd in every feature ! 
 For then inspired by glowing songs 
 
 Of "Bruce,"— or " Highland Mary," 
 The minstrel-birds, in joyous throngs, 
 
 Around their Bard would tarry ! 
 
 But wae's my heart ! he sings nae mair 
 
 In strains o' joy or sorrow. 
 Though on the bonny banks o' Ayr, 
 
 His spirit smiles each morrow !
 
 SONG. 163 
 
 And Scotia's muse — enthroned on high — 
 
 The great, the gentle hearted ! 
 Sits with the tear-drop in her eye, 
 
 And mourns her Bard departed ! 
 
 O sacred land of gallant men ! — 
 
 Of maiden unassuming ! 
 Who dwell obscure by loch and glen, 
 
 Where still the thistle's blooming ! 
 How well has Burns rehearsed your praise — 
 
 Among your cloud-crown'd mountains, 
 In never-dying, tuneful lays, — 
 
 Pure as your native fountains ! 
 
 Then fill the sparkling goblet high, 
 
 And let no discord stain it ; — 
 Let joy illume each manly eye, 
 
 WTiile to the dregs we drain it ! 
 To Burns ! to Burns ! — the king of song ! — 
 
 Whose lyre shall charm all ages ; 
 Mirth, wisdom, love, and satire strong 
 
 Adorn his deathless pages.
 
 164 
 
 Robert 50unt5 
 
 Joseph Cunningham. 
 
 Hail, Caledonia ! land of song and story, — 
 
 Land of the fair, the virtuous and the brave ! 
 The brightest star that sheds on thee its glory 
 
 Rose from the darkness of thy Burns's grave : 
 That star shall be a light among the nations 
 
 When prouder orbs have faded and grown dim. 
 And hailed with pride by coming generations. 
 
 For man yet knows not all he owes to him. 
 
 His strains have nerved the feeble 'gainst oppression, — 
 
 Aroused in true men's hearts a scorn of wrong, — 
 Pointed the hopeless to man's sure progression, 
 
 And taught the weak to suffer and be strong. 
 Lessons like these the soul of man shall cherish. 
 
 While through his heart the ardent life-blood springs : 
 One burning thought, at least, can never perish — 
 
 An honest man's above the might of kings. 
 
 While noble souls shall glow with warm emotion, — 
 
 While woman loves and genius pants for fame, — 
 While truth and freedom claim man's deep devotion, 
 
 True hearts shall throb responsive to his name. 
 Then weep not, Scotland, though thy minstrel slumbers ; 
 
 Still lives the spirit of his song sublime, — 
 vStill shall the music of his deathless numbers 
 
 Thrill in all hearts and vibrate through all time.
 
 i65 
 
 ^ivth-llliuc oi fiobcct ^iirn 
 
 Thomas William Parsons. 
 
 A LOWLY roof of simple thatch — 
 
 No home of pride, of pomp, and sin — 
 
 So freely let us lift the latch, 
 
 The willing latch that says "come in." 
 
 Plain dwelling this ! a narrow door — 
 No carpet by soft sandals trod, 
 
 But just for peasant's feet a floor, — 
 Small kingdom for a child of God ! 
 
 Vet here was Scotland's noblest born. 
 And here Apollo chose to light ; 
 
 And here those large eyes hailed the morn 
 That had for beauty such a sight ! 
 
 There, as the glorious infant lay, 
 
 Some angel fanned him with his wing. 
 
 And whispered, " Dawn upon the day 
 Like a new sun ! go forth and sing ! "
 
 l66 BIRTH-PLACE OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 He rose and sang, and Scotland heard — 
 The round world echoed with his song, 
 
 And hearts in every land were stirred 
 With love, and joy, and scorn of wrong. 
 
 Some their cold lips disdainful curled ; 
 
 Yet the sweet lays would many learn ; 
 But he went singing through the world. 
 
 In most melodious unconcern. 
 
 For flowers will grow, and showers will fall. 
 And clouds will travel o'er the sky ; 
 
 And the great God, who cares for all. 
 He will not let his darlings die. 
 
 But they shall sing in spite of men. 
 In spite of poverty and shame, 
 
 And show the world the poet's pen 
 
 May match the sword in winning fame.
 
 1 67 
 
 ^a the ittcmorB of flobcrt Citrus. 
 
 James Macfarlan. 
 
 In lonely hut and lordly hall a mighty voice is heard, 
 
 And 'neath its wild bewitching spell the honest brows are 
 bared ; 
 
 From Scotland's hills and twilight glens, to far Columbian 
 floods, 
 
 It stirs the city's streets of toil, and wakes its solitudes ; 
 
 It speaks no triumph reap'd with swords, it brings no con- 
 quering cry 
 
 Of buried honours, battle-crown'd, and veil'd with victory ; 
 
 But hearts leap loving to its note, and kindling bosoms 
 glow, 
 
 To hail the Poet born to fame, a hundred years ago. 
 
 O, like a glorious bird of God, he leapt up from the earth ! 
 A lark in song's exalted heaven, a robin by the hearth ; 
 O, like a peerless flower he sprang from Nature's meanest 
 
 sod, 
 Yet shedding joy on every path by human footstep trod. 
 How shall we tell his wondrous power, how shall we say or 
 
 sing 
 What magic to a million hearts his deathless strains can 
 
 bring ?
 
 i68 TO THE MEMORY OF BURNS. 
 
 How men on murkest battle-fields have felt the potent 
 
 charm, 
 Till sinking valour leapt to life, and strung the nerveless 
 
 arm ? 
 
 How hearts in dreariest loneliness have toil'd through 
 
 barren brine — 
 The only glimpse of sunshine then, /zz> pictures o' langsyne ; 
 How far amid the western wilds, by one enchanting tune, 
 The wide Missouri fades away in dreams of " bonny Doon." 
 More hearts and hands renew the pledge — sweet pledge of 
 
 other years — 
 That sacred " auld acquaintance " vow, the light of parting 
 
 tears. 
 
 O ! blessed be the brawny arm that tore presumption down, 
 That snatch'd the robe from worthless pride, and gave to 
 
 toil a crown ; 
 That smote the rock of poverty with song's enchanting rod, 
 Till joy into a million hearts in streams of beauty flow'd ; 
 And while that arm could stretch to heaven, and wield the 
 
 lightning's dart. 
 It brought the glorious sunshine, too, to cheer the humblest 
 
 heart : 
 For free as Spring, his gladsome muse danc'd o'er the 
 
 daisied plain. 
 Or rang in organ-gusts of praise through grandeur's mightiest 
 
 fane. 
 Then blest for ever be the soul that link'd us man to man — 
 A brotherhood of beating hearts — God's own immortal 
 
 plan : 
 ^Vhile Labour, smiling at his forge, or stalking at his plough, 
 Looks up with prouder soul to find God's finger on his 
 
 brow —
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF BURNS. 169 
 
 Feels man is man, though russet-robed, and smacking of 
 
 the soil, 
 And all are brothers, whether born to titles or to toil. 
 
 Then pledge his mem'ry far and near, although the hand 
 
 be dust 
 That oft has swept the golden lyre, that ages cannot rust : 
 No sun of time e'er sits upon the empire of his fame. 
 And still unwearied is the wing that bears abroad his name. 
 There may be grander bards than he, there may be loftier 
 
 songs. 
 But none have touch'd with nobler nerve the poor man's 
 
 rights and wrongs : 
 Then, while unto the hazy past the eye of fancy turns, 
 Raise high the fame, and bless the name of glorious Robert 
 
 Burns. 
 
 II
 
 I70 
 
 Ic mat) talk o' ^oxxv ^earning. 
 
 Andrew Mercer. 
 
 Ye may talk o' your learning, and talk o' your schools, 
 
 An' how they mak' boobies sae clever ; 
 Gude sooth ! ye will never mak' wise men o' fools, 
 
 Altho' ye should study for ever. 
 If poor be the soil, ye may labour an' toil 
 
 On a common where naething will grow man ; 
 But 'gainst sic barren sods I will lay you some odds 
 
 On the head of an Ayrshire ploughman. 
 
 Book-lear' an' the like o't, an' a' the fine things 
 
 That ye hear an' yet get at the college, 
 If there's no something /lere that school-craft quite dings, 
 
 At best ye're a hotch-potch o' knowledge. 
 But ye've heard o' a heckler wha wound i' the west, 
 
 To whom Nature had gi'en sic a pow, man, 
 The brairds o' his brain excell'd ither folks' best. 
 
 An' mony ran after his tow, man. 
 
 What signifies polish without there be pith ? 
 
 Mind that, a' ye gets o' Apollo ; 
 A farmer ance dwelt by the banks o' the Nith, 
 
 By my sang, he wad beat you a' hollow ;
 
 TALK O' YOUR LEARNING. 171 
 
 For he sang, an' he sowed, an' he penned an' he ploughed, 
 
 An' though his barnyard was but sorry, 
 Frae his girnal o' brain he sowed siccan grain, 
 
 As produced him a harvest o' glory. 
 
 Ance mair, a poor fallow there dwelt in the south. 
 
 An' he to his trade was a gauger — 
 He excelled a' the songsters, the auld an' the young, 
 
 I'll haud you a pint for a wager. 
 I farther might tell, he'd a mind like a stell, 
 
 An' such was his wonderfu' merits, 
 That the haill country rang, an' the haill country sang, 
 
 When they tasted the strength o' his spirits. 
 
 Now wha was this ploughman and heckler sae braw. 
 
 An' wha was this farmer-exciseman ? 
 It was just Robin Burns — for he was them a' — 
 
 An' ye ken that I dinna tell lies, man. 
 So here's to his memory again an' again, 
 
 Tho' learning is guid, we ne'er doubt it, 
 But a bumper to him wha had got sic a brain 
 
 That could do just as weel maist without it !
 
 172 
 
 ^he night \m\ r|uotcb 5s3unt'5 ta me. 
 
 James Newton Matthews. 
 
 The winds of early autumn blew 
 Across the midnight. Overhead 
 A wild moon up the heavens fled, 
 
 And cut the sable vault in two ; 
 
 We heard the river lap and flow, 
 We turned our poet fancies free ; 
 
 My heart did all its cares forego, 
 The night you quoted Burns to me. 
 
 A gray owl from a blasted limb 
 
 Dropped down the dark, and blundered by, 
 
 As if a fiend with flaming eye 
 Fast followed in pursuit of him ; 
 Ah then you crooned beneath the moon, 
 
 A ditty weird as weird could be ; 
 And Tarn O'Shanter crossed the Doon, 
 
 The night you quoted Burns to me. 
 
 We praised the " Lass of Ballochmyle," 
 We talked of Mary loved and lost, 
 Until our spirits touched and crossed, 
 
 And melted into tears the while.
 
 THE NIGHT YOU QUOTED BURNS. 173 
 
 We drank to " Nell " and " Bonnie Jean," 
 To Chloris and " The Banks o' Cree," 
 
 Blest hour — I keep its mem'ry green 
 The night you quoted Burns to me. 
 
 The Wabash hills their heads low hung, 
 
 As floating up their winding ways 
 
 They caught the sound of " Logan Braes," 
 And heard sweet Afton's glory sung ; 
 And loud the Wabash did deplore 
 
 That no biave poet voice had she, 
 To lend her fame for ever more : 
 
 The night you quoted Burns to me. 
 
 O dear delightful Autumn cfejj^ Tn^^'^ 
 
 For ever gone beyond recall ; 
 
 Comrade, the clouds are over all, 
 And you — you've vanished from my sight ; 
 Still flows the river as of yore, 
 
 The owl still haunts the lonely tree, 
 And I'll forget — ah, never more, 
 
 The night you quoted Burns to me.
 
 174 
 
 56irth of ^urns. 
 
 Thomas Miller. 
 
 Upon a stormy winter night 
 Scotland's bright star first rose in sight ; 
 Beaming upon as wild a sky 
 As ever to prophetic eye 
 Proclaimed, that Nature had on hand 
 Some work to glorify the land. 
 Within a lonely cot of clay, 
 That night her great creation lay. 
 
 Coila — the nymph who round his brow 
 Twined the red-berried holly-bough — 
 Her swift-winged heralds sent abroad, 
 To summon to that bleak abode 
 All who on genius still attend, 
 For good or evil to the end. 
 
 They came obedient to her call : — 
 The immortal infant knew them all. 
 
 Sorrow and Poverty — sad pair — 
 Came shivering through the wintry air : 
 Hope, with her calm eyes, fixed on Time, 
 His crooked scythe hung with flakes of rime
 
 BIRTH OF BURNS. 175 
 
 Fancy, who loves abroad to roam, 
 
 Flew gladly to that humble home : 
 
 Pity and Love, who, hand in hand, 
 
 Did by the sleeping infant stand : 
 
 Wit, with a harum-scarum grace, 
 
 Who smiled at Laughter's dimpled face : 
 
 Labour, who came with sturdy tread, 
 
 By high-souled Independence led : 
 
 Care, who sat noiseless on the floor ; 
 
 While Wealth stood up outside the door, 
 
 Looking with scorn on all who came. 
 
 Until he heard the voice of Fame, 
 
 And then he bowed down to the ground : — 
 
 Fame looked on Wealth with eyes profound, 
 
 Then passed in without sign or sound. 
 
 Then Coila raised her hollied brow, 
 And said, " Who will this child endow ? " 
 Said Love, " I'll teach him all my lore, 
 As it was never taught before ; 
 Its joys and doubts, its hopes and fears, 
 Smiles, kisses, sighs, delights, and tears." 
 Said Pity, " It shall be my part 
 To gift him with a gentle heart." 
 Said Independence, " Stout and strong 
 I'll make it to wage war with wrong." 
 Said Wit, " He shall have mirth and laughter, 
 Though all the ills of life come after." 
 *' Warbling her native wood-notes wild," 
 Fancy but stooped and kissed the child ; 
 While through her fall of golden hair 
 Hope looked down with a smile on Care. 
 
 Said Labour, " I will give him bread." 
 " And I a stone when he is dead," 
 Said Wealth, while Shame hung down her head.
 
 176 BIRTH OF BURNS. 
 
 " He'll need no monument," said Fame ; 
 
 " I'll give him an immortal name ; 
 When obelisks in ruin fall, 
 Proud shall it stand above them all ; 
 The daisy on the mountain side 
 Shall ever spread it far and wide ; 
 Even the road-side thistle down 
 Shall blow abroad his high renown." 
 
 Said Time, " That name, while I remain, 
 Shall still increasing honour gain ; 
 Till the sun sinks to rise no more, 
 And my last sand falls on the shore 
 Of that still, dark, and unsailed sea, 
 Which opens on Eternity." 
 
 Time ceased : no sound the silence stirr'd, 
 
 Save the soft notes as of a bird 
 
 Singing a low sweet plaintive song, 
 
 Which murmuring Doon seemed to prolong, 
 
 As if the mate it fain would find 
 
 Had gone and " left a thorn " behind. 
 
 Upon the sleeping infant's face 
 
 Each changing note could Coila trace. 
 
 Then came a ditty, soft and slow, 
 
 Of Love, whose locks were white as snow. 
 
 The immortal infant heard a sigh. 
 As if he knew such love must die. 
 
 That ceased : then shrieks and sounds of laughter, 
 That seemed to shake both roof and rafter, 
 Floated from where Kirk Alloway 
 Half buried in the darkness lay.
 
 BIRTH OF BURNS. 177 
 
 A mingled look of fun and fear 
 Did on the infant's face appear. 
 
 There was a hush : and then uprose 
 A strain, which had a holy close, 
 Such as with Cotter's psalm is blended 
 After the hard week's labour's ended, 
 And dawning brings the hallowed day. 
 
 In sleep the infant seemed to pray. 
 
 Then there was heard a martial tread, 
 As if some new-born Wallace led 
 Scotland's armed sons in Freedom's cause. 
 
 Stern looked the infant in repose. 
 
 The clang of warriors died away. 
 And then " a star with lessening ray " 
 Above the clay-built cottage stood ; 
 While Ayr poured from its rolling flood 
 A sad heart-rending melody, 
 Such as Love chants to Memory, 
 When of departed joys he sings, » 
 
 Of " golden hours on angel wings" 
 Departed, to return no more. 
 
 Pity's soft tears fell on the floor, 
 
 While Hope spake low, and Love looked pale. 
 
 And Sorrow closer drew her veil. 
 
 Groans seemed to rend the infant's breast, 
 Till Coila whispered him to rest ; 
 And then, uprising, thus she spake : 
 " This child unto myself I take.
 
 178 BIRTH OF BURNS. 
 
 All hail ! my own inspired Bard, 
 In me thy native Muse regard ! " 
 Around the sleeping infant's head 
 Bright trails of golden glory spread. 
 " A love of right, a scorn of wrong," 
 She said, " unto him shall belong ; 
 A pitying eye for gentle woman, 
 Knowing ' to step aside is human ' ; 
 While love in his great heart shall be 
 A living spring of poetry. 
 Failings he shall have, such as all 
 Were doomed to have at Adam's fall ; 
 But there shall spring above each vice 
 Some golden flower of Paradise, 
 Which shall, with its immortal glow, 
 Half hide the weeds that spread below j 
 So much of good, so little guile, 
 As shall make .angels weep and smile. 
 To think how like him they might be 
 If clothed in frail humanity ; 
 His mirth so close allied to tears. 
 That when grief saddens or joy cheers, 
 Like shower and shine in April weather, 
 The tears and smiles shall meet together. 
 A child-like heart, a god-like mind. 
 Simplicity round Genius twined : 
 So much like other men appear, 
 That, when he's run his wild career, 
 The world shall look with wide amaze, 
 To see what lines of glory blaze 
 Over the chequered course he passed — 
 Glories that shall forever last. 
 
 Of Highland hut and Lowland home,
 
 BIRTH OF BURNS. i79 
 
 His songs shall float across the foam. 
 Where Scotland's music ne'er before 
 Rang o'er the far-off ocean shore. 
 To shut of eve from early morn, 
 They shall be carolled 'mid the corn, 
 While maidens hang their heads aside, 
 Of Hope that lived, and Love that died ; 
 And huntsmen on the mountain's steep, 
 And herdsmen in the valleys deep. 
 And virgins spinning by the fire, 
 Shall catch some fragment of his lyre. 
 And the whole land shall all year long 
 Ring back the echoes of his song. 
 The world shall in its choice records 
 Store up his common acts and words, 
 To be through future ages spread ; 
 And how he looked, and what he said, 
 Shall in wild wonderment be read. 
 When coming centuries are dead." 
 
 " And wear thou this," she solemn said, 
 " And bound the holy round his head ; 
 The polished leaves, and berries red, 
 
 Did rustling play ; 
 And, like a passing thought she fled 
 In light away."
 
 I So 
 
 ^it Abetting toitlt 5s3urns. 
 
 Agnes Maule Machar. 
 
 Without, the " blast o' Janwar wind " 
 
 About the building seemed to linger, 
 That on a wintry night " langsyne " 
 " Blew hansel in " on Scotland's singer. 
 
 Within, we listened, soul attent 
 
 To tones attuned by tenderest feeling ; 
 
 The music of the Poet's soul 
 
 Seemed o'er our pulses softly stealing. 
 
 We saw again the ploughman lad, 
 As by the banks of Ayr he wandered, 
 
 With burning eyes and eager heart, 
 
 And first on Song and Scotland pondered. 
 
 We saw him as from Nature's soul 
 
 His own drew draughts of joy o'erflowing 
 
 The plover's voice, the briar-rose, 
 The tiny harebell lightly growing, 
 
 The wounded hare that passed him by. 
 The timorous mousie's ruined dwelling, 
 
 The cattle cowering from the blast. 
 The dying sheep her sorrow telling — ■
 
 AN EVENING WITH BURNS. iSi 
 
 All touched the heart that kept so strong 
 
 Its sympathy with humbler being, 
 And saw in simplest things of life 
 
 The poetry that waits the seeing. 
 
 We saw him 'mid the golden grain 
 
 Learning the oldest of romances ; 
 At first his boyish pulses stirred 
 
 " A bonnie lassie's " gentle glances. 
 
 We saw the birk and hawthorn shade 
 
 Droop o'er the tiny running river, 
 Where he and his dear Highland maid 
 
 Spoke their farewell — alas, for ever ! 
 
 There be the Poet's wish fulfilled 
 
 That summer ever " langest tarry," — 
 
 For all who love the singer's song 
 
 Must love his gentle Highland Mary ! 
 
 Alas, that other things than these 
 
 Were written on the later pages, 
 That made that tortured soul of his 
 
 A by-word to the after ages. 
 
 For many see the damning sins 
 
 They lightly blame on slight acquaintance. 
 But 7iot the agony of grief 
 
 That proved his passionate repentance. 
 
 'Twas his to feel the anguish keen 
 Of noblest powers to mortal given, 
 
 While tyrant passions chained to earth 
 
 The soul that might have soared to heaven.
 
 l82 AN EVENING WITH BURNS. 
 
 'Twas his to feel in one poor heart 
 Such war of fierce conflicting feeling, 
 
 As makes this life of ours too sad 
 A mystery for our unsealing — 
 
 The longing for the nobler course, 
 
 The doing of the thing abhorrent — 
 Because the lower impulse rose 
 
 Resistless as a mountain torrent- 
 Resistless to a human will, 
 
 But not to strength that had been given, 
 Had he but grasped the anchor^true 
 
 Of "correspondence fixed wi' heaven." 
 
 Ah, well ! he failed. Yet let us look 
 Through tears upon our sinning brother, 
 
 As thankful that we are not called 
 To hold the balance for each other ! 
 
 And never lips than his have pled 
 
 More tenderly and pitifully, 
 To leave the erring heart with Him 
 
 Who made it, and will judge it truly. 
 
 Nay more, it is no idle dream 
 
 That we have heard a voice from heaven, 
 " Behold this heart hath loved much. 
 And much to it shall be forgiven I "
 
 / 
 
 
 /
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
 or^.Tm^.r ^^ 000 275 014 9 
 
 CENTRAL UNIVKKMTI LilBKAKI 
 
 University of California, San Diego 
 
 DATE DUE 
 
 r^^Enw 
 
 M 2 6 
 
 1977 
 
 CI 39 
 
 UCSD Libr.