Thrill with their old sweet touch, as now,
Though middle manhood shades my brow;
For though I hear the tread of feet
Along the unsympathetic street,
And all the city’s din to-night,
My heart warms with that old delight,
In which I sit and, dreaming, hear
Singing to all the inner ear,
Rich, clear, and soft, and sweet by turns,
The deep, wild passion-throbs of Burns.