The sky, in its expanse of blue,
Has but a single cloud or two;
The lark, in raptures clear and long,
Shakes out his little soul in song.
But far above his notes, I hear
Another song within my ear,
Rich, soft, and sweet, and deep by turns—
The quick, wild passion-throbs of Burns.
Ah! were it not that he has flung
A sunshine by the songs he sung