Ode to Burns on his 130th Birthday

Weak bard, but thou dost try in vain To tune that mighty harp again, To try thy muse in Burns's strain— Thou'rt far behind. And yet to praise him thou would'st fain— It is thy mind.

He who sang of Bruce's command At Bannockburn, with sword in hand, And bid his warriors firmly stand Upon the spot; And bid the foemen leave the land, Or face the Scot.

He who freed the human mind Of superstitious weak and blind; He who peered the scenes behind Their holy fairs— How orthodox its pockets lined With canting prayers.

Yes; he whose life's short span appears Mixed up with joyous smiles and tears; So interwove with doubts and fears His harp did ring; And made the world to ope' its ears And hear him sing.

'Twas his to walk the lonely glen, Betimes to shun the haunts of men, Searching for his magic pen— Poetic fire; And far beyond the human ken He strung the lyre.

And well old Scotland may be proud To hear her Burns proclaimed aloud, For to her sons the world hath bowed Through Burns's name— All races of the world are proud Of Burns's fame.