Poems and Songs By Robert Gilfillan. Fourth edition. With memoir of the author, and appendix of his latest pieces |
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AGAIN LET US WELCOME THIS DAY MAIR THAN ONY. |
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 | Poems and Songs |  |
49
AGAIN LET US WELCOME THIS DAY MAIR THAN ONY.
Again let us welcome this day mair than ony,
This day that, wi' pleasure, aye welcome returns;
For then was proclaimed o'er thy wilds, Caledoni,
The birth-day of genius—the birth-day of Burns!
The deeds of our fame sank in time's rapid river,
Auld Scotia sat wae, till his wild harp was strung;
That harp, whose sweet tones, O! they'll vibrate for ever
The strains that breathe freedom where'er they are sung!
This day that, wi' pleasure, aye welcome returns;
For then was proclaimed o'er thy wilds, Caledoni,
The birth-day of genius—the birth-day of Burns!
The deeds of our fame sank in time's rapid river,
Auld Scotia sat wae, till his wild harp was strung;
That harp, whose sweet tones, O! they'll vibrate for ever
The strains that breathe freedom where'er they are sung!
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Nae doubt, there were ithers that shone bright before him,—
The pastoral Allan, whose name is aye dear;
'And Ferguson, O! every heart will adore him,
And shed o'er his memory sympathy's tear:
And names that will shine in auld Scottish story,
Bright stars that give lustre to Fame's glittering sky;
But Burns, he arose, like the sun in his glory,
With splendour unrivalled, that never will die!
The pastoral Allan, whose name is aye dear;
'And Ferguson, O! every heart will adore him,
And shed o'er his memory sympathy's tear:
And names that will shine in auld Scottish story,
Bright stars that give lustre to Fame's glittering sky;
But Burns, he arose, like the sun in his glory,
With splendour unrivalled, that never will die!
But soon was the wild harp hung on the willow,
Soon closed was the hand that 'woke the sweet strain;
And soon was he laid on his low earthy pillow,
To charm and awaken us never again!
But still is he sung 'mong our glens and our mountains,—
For echo hath whispered his name to the air,—
And still is he heard by our sweet gurgling fountains,
And still, in our bosoms, he's permanent there!
Soon closed was the hand that 'woke the sweet strain;
And soon was he laid on his low earthy pillow,
To charm and awaken us never again!
But still is he sung 'mong our glens and our mountains,—
For echo hath whispered his name to the air,—
And still is he heard by our sweet gurgling fountains,
And still, in our bosoms, he's permanent there!
He came 'mid the storm, O! 'twas a sad omen,
Nae simmer smiled sweet when his birth-day was nigh;
He came 'mid the roar of the angry waves foamin',
He came 'mid the gloom of a bleak winter sky:
And sad was his fate, as the wild breeze around him,
And loud were his wails, as the stormy sea wave;
At the dawning of life, misfortune it found him,
And only departed when he reached the grave!
Nae simmer smiled sweet when his birth-day was nigh;
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He came 'mid the gloom of a bleak winter sky:
And sad was his fate, as the wild breeze around him,
And loud were his wails, as the stormy sea wave;
At the dawning of life, misfortune it found him,
And only departed when he reached the grave!
But yet, though his life showed a prospect sae dreary,
He whiles bade defiance to sorrow and care;
And aften the time slipped by unco cheery,
When friendship, unfeigned, was mingling there.
Then may the bright halo of friendship be ever
Around us, when this day aye welcome returns;
A day that, in Scotland, will pass away never,
Without being hailed as the birth-day of Burns!
He whiles bade defiance to sorrow and care;
And aften the time slipped by unco cheery,
When friendship, unfeigned, was mingling there.
Then may the bright halo of friendship be ever
Around us, when this day aye welcome returns;
A day that, in Scotland, will pass away never,
Without being hailed as the birth-day of Burns!
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