No fawning, sycophantic whine,
Marr'd the clear note thy spirit blew,
Thy stirring words, thy gift divine,
Were to thyself and country true.
Tho' heir to naught of wealth, or land,
Thy soaring mind, with fancy fir'd,
Saw, in Creation's lavish hand,
The gifts display'd, thy soul desir'd.
The field, the forest and the hill
Supplied thee with exhaustless wealth,
The singing birds, and flowing rill,
Unto thy soul gave food and health.
An honest man thou lov'd, and thou
Wert honest to thy bosom's core,
As harden'd hand, and sweated brow,
A true, tho' silent witness bore.
No empty theorizer, thou,
Thy words said what thyself would do,
Thou ne'er would make thy spirit bow,
That worldly honors might accrue.
Torn by temptations, strange and wild—
Hard-hearted critics laugh to scorn
The fate of the "poetic child,"
In rugged, bonnie Scotland born.
But let them laugh, they laugh in vain.
For they, or we, who know in part,
Can never gauge the mighty strain,
That burst the genial poet's heart.
It is enough for us to know
The songs he sang for Scotland's sake,
Which winds of time can never blow
Into oblivion's silent lake.
O Burns! thy life was sad, we know,
Thy sensitive and fertile mind
Had to withstand full many a blow,
Dealt by the ignorant and blind.
But let us do thee justice here,
Tho' distant from thy native shore,
For all thy faults repress the sneer,
And thy great qualities explore.