There ever bask in uncreated rays,
No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear;
Together hymning their Creator’s praise,
In such society yet still more dear,
When circling time moves round, in an eternal sphere.
Burns.
They chant their artless notes in simple guise;
They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim:
Perhaps “Dundee’s” wild warbling measures rise,
Or plaintive “Martyrs,” worthy of the name;