Classic Poem

Hail to the bard, wha did belang
To nae mere class or clan,
But did maintain, and not in vain,
The Britherhood o' Man!
The King o' Herts! wha did far mair
To knit us to ilk ither,
Than oor lang line (some ca't divine)
O' kings a' put thegither.

An' what although he may be puir,
On Richt he tak's his stand,
An' bears him wi' the very air
O' oor ain mountain land.
His mission is wi' wrang to cope,
An' bid it to depart;
Anew to kindle love an' hope
In the despairing heart.

Frae what plain common-sense c'as richt
Nae sophistry can win him;
He daurs to speak wi' a' his micht
The burning thochts within him.
His sense o' richt, his sense o' wrang,
His love o' humble worth,
He poured in an immortal sang,
That's ringing roun' the earth.

For, intellectually sublime,
This humble peasant saw that,
Despite distinctions here, in time,
“A man's a man for a' that”
And if there was a man on earth
Wha had his detestation,
'Twas he wha measured men by birth
An' worshipped rank an' station:

For after honors he wad sneak,
An' he'd defend the wrang,
An' he wad trample on the weak,
An' truckle to the strang;
Stick ribbons in his button-hole,
An' gartens at his knee,
An' his bit trifle o' a sowl
Gang perfectly a-gley.

But still, despite o' a' the wrang
That comes by human blindness,
The spirit o' the peasant's sang
Is pity, love, an' kindness:
He pities e'en the warst o' folk;
For even some o' them,
Wi' a' their flaws, he fin's mair cause
To pity than condemn.

An' for the outcast everywhere
He had a hert to feel,
An' had some sympathy to spare
E'en for the very Deil.
Tho' in the grasp o' poverty,
Wi' a' its wants an' fears,
His hert o'erflows for ither's woes
As 'twere a fount o' tears.

E'en when he sees a needless pang
Gi'en to the brute creation,
He wha inflicts maun bide the stang
O' his roused indignation.
The thochtless youth cannot escape,
Wha wounds the harmless “Hare,”
For Mercy, in the peasant's shape,
Stands forth protesting there.

His sangs hae something in their soun'
That fills the hert an' e'e;
“Ye banks an' braes o' bonnie Doon”
Are magic words to me.
O Doon! thou'rt like nae ither stream;
Love's sacred spell has bound thee,
For a' the glory o' a dream
The peasant threw around thee.

Thou sped'st unknown through ages lang,
A little nameless river,
Till pity poured love's tears in sang,
An' hallowed thee forever.
Lang as the human hert remains
A fount o' hopes an' fears,
This simple little strain o' strains
Shall stir it into tears;

For by the Poet's magic art.
Tho' but a moorland river,
Through the green regions o' the heart,
It shall roll on forever.
Wi' him the birds forever sing,
The gowans ne'er depart;
He carries a supernal spring
Forever in his heart.

The “modest flower” he crushed to earth,
Wi' a' its snawy blossoms,
By him transplanted, blooms henceforth
Forever in oor bosoms.
An' a' the streams may cease to flow,
The sun itsel' may vary,
But down the ages he shall go
Wi' his dear Highland Mary.

Anon the bard doth change his mood,
And in the mirthfu' vein
What fancies flit on mother-wit,
An' humor a' his ain:
Until his mirth-provoking strains
Set daddie Care a daffin',
An' pit sic fun in his auld veins
He canna flyte for laughin'

Despite the thunder's dreedfu' soun',
A' through the air sae mirk,
'Mang deils an' witches he's set down
In Alloway's auld kirk.
He hears auld Nick play up a spring,
Amang his crew uncanny;
Sees a' the deevils dance an' fling,
An' cross an' cleek wi' Nannie.

Hears Tammie, as his senses swim,
Roar, “Weel dune, Cutty Sark,”
An' hears the hellish legion grim
Rush on him in the dark;
An' lang across the brig o' time,
That legion, weird an' scraggy,
Shall chase triumphant Tam, sublime
On his immortal Maggie!

An' lo! aneath the cloud o' nicht,
Despite misfortune's deggers,
Saw mortal ever sic a sicht
As a' they “Jolly Beggars”?

E'en happiness, that shuns the great,
Can nestle amang rags,
And even love an' joy can wait
Amang auld mealy bags.

E'en wisdom gravely listens when
His “Twa Dugs” tak a seat,
To get some licht on ways o' men;
But even dugs are beat.
Burns wasna perfect to a dot,
An' wha amang us a'
But has some hole in his ain coat,
An' maybe some hae twa?

Let them tak tent wha think they staun;
God keep us humble a'
The pride o' never having fa'en
Itsel's a dreedfu' fa'.
Oh, never, never forward be
The erring ane to blame.
For under like temptation ye
Micht just hae dune the same.

Burns micht hae muckle to repent
O' “passions wild and strong,”
But did he gie his soul's consent,
Although he did the wrong?
We love him, even wi' a stain,
Nae matter wha may ban;
We love him, for he did maintain
The liberty of Man.

And till the ages a' are fled,
And time shall cease to roll,
His “Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled”
Shall fire the freeman's soul.
Hail! Minstrel o' the brave and true,
Tho' Scotia's pride thou art,
In spirit thou belongest to
The universal heart.