If fault he had, ’twas Nature’s fault,
And man, beware that you have none,
Before you do yourself exalt,
To cast at Robbie Burns a stone.
I wish he was with us tonight,
To pass a pleasant hour or two,
And fill all hearts with rare delight,
As he was ever wont to do.
Methinks e’en now I see him sit
The centre of an eager throng,
And hear his ceaseless flow of wit,
Or words of some soul stirring song.
His lovely songs will e’er be sung,
And greener grow his memory,
’Mong people whether old or young,
Till father Time has ceased to be.
THE SOUL OF FLANDERS
(1916)
The chimes that oft from old Malines,
Rang out their sacred strain,
At morning, noon and eventide,
Shall never ring again;
That voice that called the living,
Or sadly mourned the dead,
Is still and silent now for aye:
The soul of Flanders’ fled.
The peasant at his daily toil,
Shall listen now in vain,
From early morn till evening,
To hear those chimes again;
But never shall such silver sounds
By harmony inbred,
Fall on his ever listening ears;
The soul of Flanders’ fled.
Those lovely chimes, which e’er were wont
To sound with morn’s first beams,
And ’wake the tourist from his sleep,
Will haunt his waking dreams;
But never more those dulcet sounds
Will rouse him from his bed,
And fill his soul with ecstasy:
The soul of Flanders’ fled.
’Tis strangely sad such chimes as those,
Which seemed a heavenly dow’r,
Should fall a prey to tyranny,
And war’s barbaric pow’r,
A city new will rise again
Up from its ashen bed,
But those old chimes shall ring no more:
The soul of Flanders’ fled.