The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson ... for the first time fully collected and compared with the original and early editions ... edited ... by the Rev. Alexander B. Grosart ... with portrait, illustrations, &c |
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 | The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson |  |
77
ODE,
FOR THE BIRTHDAY OF OUR IMMORTAL SCOTTISH POET; SET TO MUSIC BY A BACCHANALIAN CLUB.
Ye sons of bright Phœbus, ye bards of the plough,
Shout aloud! and let gladness sublime every brow;
See the young rosy morning rejoicing returns,
That blest our fair isle with the rare Robin Burns!
Shout aloud! and let gladness sublime every brow;
See the young rosy morning rejoicing returns,
That blest our fair isle with the rare Robin Burns!
Let the pure aquavitæ now inspire ev'ry soul,
Since whisky can waft us at once to the pole;
Let us laugh down the priest and the devil by turns,
And roar out the praise of the rare Robin Burns.
Since whisky can waft us at once to the pole;
Let us laugh down the priest and the devil by turns,
And roar out the praise of the rare Robin Burns.
Hail blest “Ordination”! all hail “Holy Fair”!
Ye glorious effusions! ye thrice-sacred pair!
Your pages the rake on his death-bed o'erturns,
And mixes a damn with “O rare Robin Burns!”
Ye glorious effusions! ye thrice-sacred pair!
Your pages the rake on his death-bed o'erturns,
And mixes a damn with “O rare Robin Burns!”
By Babel no more let us languish forlorn,
Come twitch up the strings to great “John Barleycorn”;
Be our friendship eternal, and laid in our urns,
If we roar let us roar with the rare Robin Burns.
Come twitch up the strings to great “John Barleycorn”;
Be our friendship eternal, and laid in our urns,
If we roar let us roar with the rare Robin Burns.
Ye nymphs of old Colia, who exult in his art,
And have felt the warm raptures glide home to your heart,
Leave your raw, lifeless clodpoles, your cows and your churns,
And encore the great sportsman, “O rare Robin Burns!”
And have felt the warm raptures glide home to your heart,
Leave your raw, lifeless clodpoles, your cows and your churns,
And encore the great sportsman, “O rare Robin Burns!”
Clear the road, ye dull churchmen! make way for our bard,
To whose tow'ring genius no task is too hard;
Your glories, your precepts, your nonsense he spurns,
And Europe loud echoes, “O rare Robin Burns!”
To whose tow'ring genius no task is too hard;
Your glories, your precepts, your nonsense he spurns,
And Europe loud echoes, “O rare Robin Burns!”
Rejoice ye Excisemen! resound the huzza!
Nor tremble, by piecemeal in brimstone to gnaw;
Though horrors surround, he's a coward that mourns,
All hell will befriend you for rare Robin Burns.
Nor tremble, by piecemeal in brimstone to gnaw;
Though horrors surround, he's a coward that mourns,
All hell will befriend you for rare Robin Burns.
78
Hark, hark! what an uproar! every ghost is afoot,
How they brandish their fire-brands 'mid darkness and soot!
See legion on legion tumultuous adjourns,
To swell the loud strain of “O rare Robin Burns!”
How they brandish their fire-brands 'mid darkness and soot!
See legion on legion tumultuous adjourns,
To swell the loud strain of “O rare Robin Burns!”
Ye “heav'n-taught” rhymers, ye bards of the plough,
Shout aloud! and let gladness sublime every brow;
While the young rosy morning rejoicing returns,
That blest our fair isle with the rare Robin Burns.
Shout aloud! and let gladness sublime every brow;
While the young rosy morning rejoicing returns,
That blest our fair isle with the rare Robin Burns.
| The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson | |