To Robert Burns

Sweet Singer that I loe the maist     O' ony, sin' wi' eager haste     I smacket bairn-lips ower the taste     O' hinnied sang,     I hail thee, though a blessed ghaist     In Heaven lang!     For weel I ken, nae cantie phrase,     Nor courtly airs, nor lairdly ways,     Could gar me freer blame, or praise,     Or proffer hand,     Where "Rantin' Robbie" and his lays     Thegither stand.     And sae these hamely lines I send,     Wi' jinglin' words at ilka end,     In echo o' the sangs that wend     Frae thee to me     Like simmer-brooks, wi mony a bend     O' wimplin' glee.     In fancy, as wi' dewy een,     I part the clouds aboon the scene     Where thou wast born, and peer atween,     I see nae spot     In a' the Hielands half sae green     And unforgot?     I see nae storied castle-hall,     Wi' banners flauntin' ower the wall     And serf and page in ready call,     Sae grand to me     As ane puir cotter's hut, wi' all     Its poverty.     There where the simple daisy grew     Sae bonnie sweet, and modest too,     Thy liltin' filled its wee head fu'     O' sic a grace,     It aye is weepin' tears o' dew     Wi' droopit face.     Frae where the heather bluebells fling     Their sangs o' fragrance to the Spring,     To where the lavrock soars to sing,     Still lives thy strain,     For' a' the birds are twittering     Sangs like thine ain.     And aye, by light o' sun or moon,     By banks o' Ayr, or Bonnie Doon,     The waters lilt nae tender tune     But sweeter seems     Because they poured their limpid rune     Through a' thy dreams.     Wi' brimmin' lip, and laughin' ee,     Thou shookest even Grief wi' glee,     Yet had nae niggart sympathy     Where Sorrow bowed,     But gavest a' thy tears as free     As a' thy gowd.     And sae it is we be thy name     To see bleeze up wi' sic a flame,     That a' pretentious stars o' fame     Maun blink asklent,     To see how simple worth may shame     Their brightest glent.