Or to the suff’rer yield relief.
The sons of Genius hapless race,
To often are the sons of woe;
The dreary path of want they trace,
Or to the grave unheeded go.
Such, Burns, was thy unhappy fate,
Such the reward of worth like thine;
The muse deplores thine humble state,
Which thy bright talents could confine.
Offspring of nature—self-taught Bard,