And dost thou say the peasant bard
Who held the plough on Scotia's plains
Had scorn for good, and no regard
For Him whose life leaps in our veins?

Weak-minded fool, dost thou not know
The poet's heart is ever true,
And turns to God, as rivers flow
To regions which their rising knew?

The clouds seem dark as o'er the blue
And broad expanse of heaven they glide,
But He whose eye can pierce them through
Sees silver on the other side.

The clouds seem dark, and yet they shed
The dews and sweet refreshing showers
That make the daisy raise its head,
And breathe a fragrance 'mong the flowers.

And so with Burns; look through his sin,
His follies, frailties, and excess,
And you will see a soul within
Whose silver side was manliness.

Yes, like the clouds, he poured the balm
Of joy o'er many a wounded heart;
The troubled breast he soothed to calm,
He made the tear of pity start.

And though the hours of darkness came,
And through that darkness he was driven,
His song — his heart — were still the same;
His destination still was heaven.

And now, tho' reached that unknown shore
From whence no mortal e'er returns,
Thousands of hearts when we're no more,
Will bless the name of Robert Burns.