Classic Poem

‘M Y 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.