University of Virginia Library

SCOTSMEN TO SCOTLAND,

WRITTEN FOR THE SCOTSMEN OF SHEFFIELD.

Thy Men of Men shall we forget,
Old Scotland? No. Where'er we be,
All lonely, or in exile met,
We think of them and thee.
Mother of Knox! “hast thou a charm”
That gives to all thy name who bear
Thoughts which unnerve the despot's arm,
And Will, to do and dare?
Thou bad'st him build on tyrant's bones
An altar to the Lord of Lords;
Thou gav'st him power to shatter thrones,
And vanquish kings, with words.
Stern Mother of the deathless dead!
Where stands a Scot, a freeman stands,
Self-stay'd, if poor—self-clothed, self-fed,
Mind-mighty, in all lands.
No mitred pleader need thy sons,
To save the wretch whom Mercy spurns;
No classic lore thy little ones,
Who find a Bard in Burns.
Their path, though dark, they will not miss;
Secure, they tread on danger's brink;
They say, “This shall be!” and it is;
For, ere they act, they think.
Mother of Burns! thy woe-nursed bard
Not always wisely thought or said;
He err'd, he sinn'd—but, oh, 'tis hard
To ban the voiceless dead!
Mother! thy doric speech hath power
The heart with passion's thrill to move;
But none could sing, in hall or bower,
Like him, thy Bard of Love.
Who dipp'd his words in lightning? Who
With thunder arm'd his stormy rhyme?
Who made his music tender, true,
Terse, terrible, sublime?
Who bade thy bard, in thrall, maintain
A freeman's port, where'er he trod?
Who taught the peasant to disdain
Proud Fashion's Minstrels? God.
Who gave the child of toil a lyre,
With living sunbeams wildly strung?
And taught his soul of living fire
Truth's universal tongue?
God. But with torture Faction fill'd
The cup he drain'd in gloomy pride:
What marvel, if the poison kill'd?
What marvel, if he died?
Few were his days, his fortunes foul;
Bravely he struggled, though not long;
And with a poet's glowing soul,
Drew near to God in song.
For Conscience to thy poet said,
“Burns! be a martyr!” “For the truth,
I will,” he cried—and bow'd his head,
And died, grey-hair'd in youth.
With little men he might not stay,
But hasted from a world unkind:
Oh, guess the worth he threw away,
By what he left behind!
And what a wreath his fame had worn,
Amid a world's immortal tears,
Had he, like England's Milton, borne
The fruit of sixty years!
But shall it of our sires be told
That they their “brother poor” forsook?
No! for they gave him more than gold;
They bought the brave man's Book!
Scotland! thy sons—and not unearn'd
This day of pleasing tears returns—
Are met to mourn thy trampled, spurn'd,
Poor, broken-hearted Burns.
And oft again, the kind, the brave,
Who sorrow's feast, like him, have shared,
Will meet, to honour in his grave
Thy glorious rustic bard.
Oh, spare his frailties!—write them not
On mute Misfortune's coffin-lid!—
Ev'n Bacon err'd, and greater Scott
Not always greatly did.
A fearful gift is flame from heav'n,
To him who bears it in his breast:
Self-fired, and blasted, but forgiv'n,
Let Robert's ashes rest.