POEMS
BURNS' ANNIVERSARY MEETING
29th January, 1810.*
AGAIN the happy day returns,—
A day to Scotsmen ever dear,—
Tho bleakest of the changeful year,
It blest us with a Burns.
Drifting wide the crispy snow ;
Rude the ruthless storms may sweep,
Howling round our mountain's steep;
While the heavy lashing rains,
Swell our rivers, drench our plains,
And the angry ocean roars
Round our broken craggy shores;
But, mindful of our Poet's worth,
We hail the honour'd day that gave him birth.
Come, ye vot'ries of the lyre,
Trim the torch of heav'nly fire,
Raise the song in Scotia's praise,
Sing anew her bonnie braes,
Sing her thousand siller streams,
Bickering to the sunny beams ;
Sing her sons beyond compare,
Sing her daughters, peerless, fair ;
Sing, till Winter's storms be o'er,
The matchless bards that sung before;
And I, the meanest of the Muse's train,
Shall join my feeble aid to swell the strain.
Dear Scotia, though thy clime be cauld,
Thy sons were ever brave and bauld,
Thy daughters modest, kind, and leel,—
The fairest in creation's fiel' ;
Alike inur'd to every toil,
Thou'rt foremost in the battle broil ;
Prepar'd alike in peace and weir,
To guide the plough or wield the spear.
As the mountain torrent raves,
Dashing through its rugged caves,
So the Scottish legions pour
Dreadful in the avenging hour ;
But when Peace, with kind accord,
Bids them sheath the sated sword,
See them, in their native vales,
Jocund as the Summer gales,
Cheering Labour all the day
With some merry roundelay.
Dear Scotia, tho thy nights be drear
When surly Winter rules the year,
Around thy cottage hearths are seen
The glow of health, the cheerful mien ;
The mutual glance, that fondly shares
A neighbour's joys, a neighbour's cares:
Here aft, while raves the wind and weet,
The canty lads and lasses meet.
Sae light of heart, sae full of glee,
Their gaits sae artless and sae free,
The hours of joy come dancing on
To share their frolic and their fun.
Here mony a song and jest goes round,
With tales of ghosts and rites profound,
Perform'd in dreary wizard glen
By wrinkled hags and warlike men,
Or of the hell fee'd crew combin'd—
Carousing on the midnight wind
On some infernal errand bent,
While darkness shrouds their black intent.
But chiefly, Burns, thy songs delight
To charm the weary winter night,
And bid the lingering moments flee
Without a care, unless for thee,
Wha sang sae sweet, and dee't sae soon,
And soucht the native sphere aboon.
Thy “Lovely Jean,” thy “Nannie, O,”
Thy much lov'd “Caledonia,”
Thy “Wat ye wha's in yonder toun,”
Thy “Banks and Braes o' Bonnie Doon,”
Thy “Shepherdess on Afton Braes,”
Thy “Logan Lassie's” bitter waes,
Are a gane o'er, sae sweetly tun'd,
That e'en the storm, pleased with the sound,
Fa's lown, and sings with eerie slight,
“O let me in this ae, ae night.”
Alas ! our best, our dearest Bard,
How poor, how great was his reward;
Unaided, he has fix'd his name
Immortal, in the rolls of fame.
Yet who can hear, without a tear,
What sorrows wrung his manly breast,
To see his little, helpless, filial band
Imploring succour from a father's hand,
And there no succour near ?
Himself the while with sick'ning woes opprest,
Fast hast'ning on to where the weary rest—
For this let Scotia's bitter tears atone,
She reck'd not half his worth till he was gone.
*Note by Motherwell.—“This is the last Ode that was written by Robert Tannahill for the Paisley Burns Club, who held their Sixth Anniversary Meeting to celebrate the Birth of their favourite Bard in January, 1801. It was recited on that occasion by the President, and was received by the company with every mark of satisfaction and applause.”—Ed.