Classic Poem

Weak bard, but thou dost try in vain
To tune that mighty harp again,
To try thy muse in Burns’s strain—
Thou’rt far behind.
And yet to praise him thou would’st fain—
It is thy mind.

He who sang of Bruce’s command
At Bannockburn, with sword in hand,
And bid his warriors firmly stand
Upon the spot;
And bid the foemen leave the land,
Or face the Scot.

He who freed the human mind
Of superstitious weak and blind;
He who peered the scenes behind
Their holy fairs—
How orthodox its pockets lined
With canting prayers.

Yes; he whose life’s short span appears
Mixed up with joyous smiles and tears;
So interwove with doubts and fears
His harp did ring;
And made the world to ope’ its ears
And hear him sing.

’Twas his to walk the lonely glen,
Betimes to shun the haunts of men,
Searching for his magic pen—
Poetic fire;
And far beyond the human ken
He strung the lyre.

And well old Scotland may be proud
To hear her Burns proclaimed aloud,
For to her sons the world hath bowed
Through Burns’s name—
All races of the world are proud
Of Burns’s fame.