I've stood beside the cottage bed Where the Bard-peasant first drew breath; A straw-thatched roof above his head, A straw-wrought couch beneath.
And I have stood beside the pile, His monument—that tells to Heaven The homage of earth's proudest isle To that Bard-peasant given!
Bid thy thoughts hover o'er that spot, Boy-Minstrel, in thy dreaming hour; And know, however low his lot, A Poet's pride and power.
The pride that lifted Burns from earth, The power that gave a child of song Ascendancy o'er rank and birth, The rich, the brave, the strong;
pb n="25"> And if despondency weigh down Thy spirit's fluttering pinions then, Despair—thy name is written on The roll of common men.
There have been loftier themes than his, And longer scrolls, and louder lyres, And lays lit up with Poesy's Purer and holier fires:
Yet read the names that know not death; Few nobler ones than Burns are there; And few have won a greener wreath Than that which binds his hair.
His is that language of the heart, In which the answering heart would speak, Thought, word, that bids the warm tear start, Or the smile light the cheek;