Classic Poem

Once more upon the Frith of Clyde,
 Once more upon the dancing sea;
From out the land-locked harbor wide
 Our Anglia sails right merrily.
Old Arran rises on our right,
Her mountains bathed in sunset light;
While toward the coast the vision turns,
And rests upon the Land of Burns.

The western sky is all aglow;
 The headlands bold are touched with light;
Reflected beauty sleeps below,
 Upon the waters pure and bright.
It seems indeed a fitting eve
Of Scotia dear to take our leave,
And in a sunset hour so fair
To bid “good-night” to Bonnie Ayr.

But now the mountains lose their gold,
 And to the leeward sink from view;
The distant coast can scarce be told—
 A line upon the ocean blue;
On Ailsa Craig and Rathlin Isle
A single cloud attempts to smile;
And toward the coast the vision turns
In vain, to find the Land of Burns.

Ruins and shrines where memories sleep
 We leave behind on every side;
Dumbarton's walls and frowning keep,
 Which shield the beauty of the Clyde;

Dunedin, darling of the North,
Whose castle guards the winding Forth,
And countless others, old and gray,
Between the silver Tweed and Tay;

Sweet Ellen's Isle in beauty framed,
 Iona's shrine and dark Glencoe,
Fair Melrose, and that valley famed
 Where Ettrick, Tweed, and Yarrow flow—

They all come back this summer eve,
As we of Scotia take our leave;
But more than all fond memory turns
And rests on Ayr, the home of Burns.

For there the “Daisy” was uptorn,
 To blossom on a wider field;
And there the “Mousie,” kindred born,
 Was first to poesie revealed.
The land of “Auld Lang Syne” is there,
The cotter's home, the evening prayer:
To these, in truth, the memory turns—
To these, which make the Land of Burns.

And there his genius, Coila's maid,
 In middle furrow stayed his plough,
And left her lustrous mantle plaid,
 And bound the holly round his brow;
And there love met the ploughman bard,
Ere life to him seemed “luckless starred;”
And there most glorious hopes were born,
Ere “Mary” from his heart was torn.

He felt “misfortune's cauld nor'-west,”
 And saw that “man was made to mourn;”
The “Scarlet Letter” on his breast
 Was never in concealment worn.
With all his failings, he was free
From shadow of hypocrisy;
In grief he always felt the thorn,
But boldly answered scorn with scorn.

It seemed his mission to bestow
 On humble things the highest worth;
The streams that by his “shieling” flow
 Ripple in song o'er all the earth.
The little Kirk of Alloway
Shines forth immortal in his lay,
And, filled with witches, takes its stand,
The ruin of his storied land.

He hears the “Twa Dogs” at his door
 Discuss the ways of human life;
He meets with “Death” upon the moor,
 With whom old “Hornbook” was at strife;
He talks familiar with the “Deil,”
As if he were a friendly chiel;
And “Holy Fair” upon the green
Becomes a Sunday “Halloween.”

He dared to use the pointed quill,
 While others bowed the knee to power;
And Scotland owes a guerdon still
 To Burns, who left her fairest dower.
It was his wish, “for Scotland's sake,
Some useful plan or book to make;”
And evermore the pilgrim turns
To Scotia dear, the Land of Burns.

The land of heath and shaggy wood
 To him was bathed in roseate light;
He knew each spot where heroes stood,
 And dared to battle for the right.
True heroes of the olden time,
Whose names still ring in freedom's chime,
And make e'en strangers fondly turn
Unto the field of Bannockburn.

His “Scots wha hae” rings out more clear
 Than any song in field or camp;
And others rise more true and dear—
 “The rank is but the guinea-stamp.”
For there are grander fields to fight,
Where man proclaims his brother's right;
And Burns of poets leads the van
In simple truth—that man is man.

That little “cottage” thatched with straw
 Still speaks the truth he loved to sing:
A glorious manhood free to a,
 Which titles could not take or bring.
Mansions of rank are poor indeed
Beside this cotter's lowly shed,
And pride is humbled as it turns
To cross the porch of Robert Burns.