 | Poems |  |
TO THE MEMORY OF ROBERT BURNS.
And he was born a century since!
What matters that to him?
Years dull the fame of peer and prince,
But his what years can dim?
No; he whom falser glories dread,
Old Time, would scorn to wrong
One laurel on the glorious head
Of this our king of song.
Fill! If cold to his fame there be
One Scot, him Scotland spurns.
Up, Scotchmen all, and drink with me,
“Our glory—Robert Burns!”
What matters that to him?
Years dull the fame of peer and prince,
But his what years can dim?
218
Old Time, would scorn to wrong
One laurel on the glorious head
Of this our king of song.
Fill! If cold to his fame there be
One Scot, him Scotland spurns.
Up, Scotchmen all, and drink with me,
“Our glory—Robert Burns!”
Ah, friends! old Scotland's heart to warm,
Another comes not soon
Like him bestow'd on her in storm
Upon the banks of Doon.
O clay-built cot that gave him birth,
Where is your name not known—
Your name, poor hut, that gave to earth
The man earth's proud to own?
Fill! Proud of him we well may be,
Whose words no child but learns.
Up, Scotchmen all, with three times three,
And drink to “Robert Burns!”
Another comes not soon
Like him bestow'd on her in storm
Upon the banks of Doon.
O clay-built cot that gave him birth,
Where is your name not known—
Your name, poor hut, that gave to earth
The man earth's proud to own?
Fill! Proud of him we well may be,
Whose words no child but learns.
Up, Scotchmen all, with three times three,
And drink to “Robert Burns!”
The very air he breathed is dear
To all, whate'er their lots.
O fields he trod! what heart is here
But holds your holy spots?
O Ellisland! No Scot is he
A glow who does not feel
To hear thy name, or more to see
Thy lowly roof, Mossgiel!
What Scottish heart, where'er it be
In farthest lands, but yearns,
Ere death, the very homes to see
That shelter'd Robert Burns?
To all, whate'er their lots.
O fields he trod! what heart is here
But holds your holy spots?
O Ellisland! No Scot is he
A glow who does not feel
To hear thy name, or more to see
Thy lowly roof, Mossgiel!
What Scottish heart, where'er it be
In farthest lands, but yearns,
Ere death, the very homes to see
That shelter'd Robert Burns?
'Twas his our meanest wants to know,
Our worst toils to endure;
But, more—to pride and wealth to show
What souls God gives the poor.
How little Heaven for titles cares,
How well his genius told,
That rank is but the stamp it bears,
That man's the sterling gold!
No nobler truth the world can know
Than this from him it learns,
The high may be beneath the low.
Then drink “The Ploughman Burns!”
Our worst toils to endure;
But, more—to pride and wealth to show
What souls God gives the poor.
How little Heaven for titles cares,
How well his genius told,
219
That man's the sterling gold!
No nobler truth the world can know
Than this from him it learns,
The high may be beneath the low.
Then drink “The Ploughman Burns!”
And were they sung so long ago?
Well, time but makes more dear
His songs, that do but sweeter grow,
And sweeter with each year.
O tender strains, how well you told
Our fathers' joys and fears!
The self-same power to-day you hold
To speak our laughs and tears.
Than this that it was his to know,
That now our reverence earns,
No nobler power God gives below—
Then drink, “The Poet Burns!”
Well, time but makes more dear
His songs, that do but sweeter grow,
And sweeter with each year.
O tender strains, how well you told
Our fathers' joys and fears!
The self-same power to-day you hold
To speak our laughs and tears.
Than this that it was his to know,
That now our reverence earns,
No nobler power God gives below—
Then drink, “The Poet Burns!”
Flow on, O Ayr—O Nith, flow on—
Soft murmur of his praise
Who shower'd yet richer charms upon
Your bonny banks and braes!
Through him how many a dear, dear scene
A sweeter beauty fills!
More green your valleys' tender green,
More dear your heathy hills;
Where breathes the Scot who, far or near,
But to old Scotland yearns?
Then fill to him who made more dear
Her hills and vales,—to “Burns!”
Soft murmur of his praise
Who shower'd yet richer charms upon
Your bonny banks and braes!
Through him how many a dear, dear scene
A sweeter beauty fills!
More green your valleys' tender green,
More dear your heathy hills;
Where breathes the Scot who, far or near,
But to old Scotland yearns?
Then fill to him who made more dear
Her hills and vales,—to “Burns!”
O poet! let thy heart rejoice
Wherever now thou art;
Thy songs still live in every voice,
Still throb through every heart.
In every clime those songs are heard;
What nations from us spring!
And still, where sounds an English word,
O Burns, thy songs they sing!
And long as hearts shall sink and swell
With grief and mirth by turns,
Those songs our joys and griefs shall tell—
Then drink to “Robert Burns!”
Wherever now thou art;
Thy songs still live in every voice,
Still throb through every heart.
In every clime those songs are heard;
What nations from us spring!
And still, where sounds an English word,
O Burns, thy songs they sing!
220
With grief and mirth by turns,
Those songs our joys and griefs shall tell—
Then drink to “Robert Burns!”
And O, not only through our days
Shall “Auld lang syne” be sung,
And, praised with tears, “Ye banks and braes,”
Shall linger from each tongue.
To those dear words, to unborn eyes
Unbidden tears shall steal,
While time an English heart supplies
Their tender charm to feel.
Then up! to him your glasses raise
To whom your love so yearns,
Whom unborn hearts shall love and praise,
Up! Scotchmen,—“Robert Burns!”
Shall “Auld lang syne” be sung,
And, praised with tears, “Ye banks and braes,”
Shall linger from each tongue.
To those dear words, to unborn eyes
Unbidden tears shall steal,
While time an English heart supplies
Their tender charm to feel.
Then up! to him your glasses raise
To whom your love so yearns,
Whom unborn hearts shall love and praise,
Up! Scotchmen,—“Robert Burns!”
Yet let not Scotland rise alone
To this our loving toast;
No; England claims him as her own,
Her glory and her boast.
Then up—up all!—and fill with me
Your glasses to the brim;
Our common pride he well may be,
Let all, then, drink to him.
The fame of him whose matchless songs
No English tongue but learns,
To all of English blood belongs;
Fill all—to “Robert Burns!”
To this our loving toast;
No; England claims him as her own,
Her glory and her boast.
Then up—up all!—and fill with me
Your glasses to the brim;
Our common pride he well may be,
Let all, then, drink to him.
The fame of him whose matchless songs
No English tongue but learns,
To all of English blood belongs;
Fill all—to “Robert Burns!”
| Poems | |