RECITATIVE .

Yes, Burns , " thou dear departed shade! "
When rolling centuries have fled,
Thy name shall still survive the wreck of time,
Shall rouse the genius of thy native clime;
Bards yet unborn, and patriots shall come,
And catch fresh ardour at thy hallow'd tomb —
There's not a cairn-built cottage on our hills,
Nor rural hamlet on our fertile plains,
But echoes to the magic of his strains,
While every heart with highest transport thrills.
Our countries melodies shall perish never,
For, Burns, thy song shall live for ever.
Then, once again, ye vocal few,
Give the song to merit due.