THE GIFT OF BURNS.
[_]
(Addressed to the Caledonian Club, Boston,
U.S.A., on the Anniversary of the Birth
of the Poet.)
I
The speech our English Pilgrims spoke
Fills the great plains afar,
And branches of the British oak
Wave 'neath 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!
II
But where new oaks of England rise
The thistle freelier blows;
Across the seas 'neath alien skies
Another Scotland grows;
Here Independence, mountain Maid
Reaps her full birthright now,
And Burns's shade, in trews and plaid,
Still whistles at the plough!
III
Scots, gather'd now in phalanx bright,
Here in this distant land,
To greet you all, this festal 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 whose 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!
VI
The songs he sang were sown as seeds
Deep in the furrow'd earth—
They blossom into dauntless deeds
And flowers of gentle mirth;
They brighten every path we tread,
They conquer Time and place;
While blue skies, opening overhead,
Reveal—the Singer's face!
VII
God bless him! Tho' he sin'd and fell,
His sins are all forgiven,
Since 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
All honour'd be the night indeed
When he this life began—
The open-handed, stubborn-knee'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!
IX
His soul pursues us where we roam,
Beyond the furthest 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!
