I answer mourner, penitent, and lover, With quick'ning stir, with bud and leaf and sap: "Peace, peace," I say, "when life's brief day is over Ye shall sleep soundly in your mother's lap."
The loss, the longing of mankind I'm sharing, The hopes, the joys, the laughter and the tears, And yet you think I should be old, uncaring, The barren, worn-out plaything of the years!
Past centuries have not trodden out my greenness With all their marches, as you well can see, Nor will you bring me withered age or leanness. March on—what are your hundred years to me.
While life and growth within me glow and flourish, While in the sunshine and the falling rain I, the great Mother, do bring forth and nourish The springtime blossom and the harvest grain?
March on, O Century, I am safe holden In God's right hand, the garner-house of truth— The hand that holds the treasure rare and golden Of life, and sweetness, and eternal youth!
THAIL BURN.
The river is a ribbon wide, The falls a snowy feather, And stretching far on ilka side Are hills abloom wi' heather. The wind comes loitering frae the west By weight o' sweets retarded; The sea-mist hangs on Arran's crest, A Golden Fleece unguarded.
We ken ye weel, ye fond young pair, That hand in hand do tarry; The youth is Burns, the Bard o' Ayr, The lass is Highland Mary. He tells her they will never pairt— 'Tis life and luve taegither— The world has got the song by hairt He sang among the heather.