Amen, Amen.
It was not enough that Robert Burns taught a religion as pure and gentle and loving as that proclaimed by the Nazarene himself. Its meaning and beauty and charity were lost on those who would not see. Long ago it was written down that, “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.” If this is any test of a religious life, then few men will stand as high in the great beyond as Robert Burns. This poor poet has melted more hearts to pity and moved more souls to mercy, and inclined more lives to charity than any other poet that ever dreamed and sung. Not men and women and children alone were the objects of his bounteous love and tender heart, but he felt the pain of the bird, the hare, the mouse, and even the daisy whose roots were upturned to the biting blast. Hear him sing of the poor bird for whom he shudders at the winter’s cold:
Ilka hopping bird, we helpless thing
That in the merry month o’ spring
Delighted me to hear thee sing,
What comes o’ thee!
Where wilt thou cow’r thy chilling wing
And close thy ee?
Few men that ever lived would stop and lament with Burns, as he shattered the poor clay home of the field mouse with his plough. No matter what he did; no matter what he said; no matter what his creed; the man that wrote these lines deserves a place with the best and purest of this world or any other that the Universe may hold.
Wee, sleekit, cow’rin, tim’rous beastie!