*Burns' Centenary*

"I'll be more respected a hundred years after I am dead than I am at present."--R. B., 1796.

"My fame is sure; when I am dead A century," the Poet said, "They'll heap the honours on my head They grudge me noo"; To-day the hundred years hae sped That prove it true.

Whiles as the feathered ages flee, Time sets the sand-glass on his knee, An' ilka name baith great an' wee Shak's thro' his sieve; Syne sadly wags his pow to see The few that live.

An' still the quickest o' the lot Is his wha made the lowly cot A shrine, whaur ilka rev'rent Scot Bareheadit turns. Our mither's psalms may be forgot, But never Burns.

This nicht, auld Scotland, dry your tears, An' let nae sough o' grief come near's; We'll speak o' Rab's gin he could hear's; Life's but a fivver, And he's been healed this hundred years To live for ever.