Robert Burns.

One hundred years have come and gone,     Since thy brave spirit came to earth,     Since Scotland saw thy genius dawn,     And had the joy to give thee birth.     There was no proud and brilliant throng,     To celebrate thine advent here,     And but the humble heard the song,     Which first proclaim'd a poet near.     But genius will assert its right     To speak a word, or chant a lay,     And thou, with independent might,     Asserted it from day to day.     No fawning, sycophantic whine,     Marr'd the clear note thy spirit blew,     Thy stirring words, thy gift divine,     Were to thyself and country true.     Tho' heir to naught of wealth, or land,     Thy soaring mind, with fancy fir'd,     Saw, in Creation's lavish hand,     The gifts display'd, thy soul desir'd.     The field, the forest and the hill     Supplied thee with exhaustless wealth,     The singing birds, and flowing rill,     Unto thy soul gave food and health.     An honest man thou lov'd, and thou     Wert honest to thy bosom's core,     As harden'd hand, and sweated brow,     A true, tho' silent witness bore.     No empty theorizer, thou,     Thy words said what thyself would do,     Thou ne'er would make thy spirit bow,     That worldly honors might accrue.     Torn by temptations, strange and wild -     Hard-hearted critics laugh to scorn     The fate of the "poetic child,"     In rugged, bonnie Scotland born.     But let them laugh, they laugh in vain.     For they, or we, who know in part,     Can never gauge the mighty strain,     That burst the genial poet's heart.     It is enough for us to know     The songs he sang for Scotland's sake,     Which winds of time can never blow     Into oblivion's silent lake.     O Burns! thy life was sad, we know,     Thy sensitive and fertile mind     Had to withstand full many a blow,     Dealt by the ignorant and blind.     But let us do thee justice here,     Tho' distant from thy native shore,     For all thy faults repress the sneer,     And thy great qualities explore.     In Canada, where all are free,     And none can e'er be call'd a slave,     Let Scotia's sons remember thee,     And weave a garland for thy grave.     In fancy, let them grace thy brows     With wreathes of fadeless asphodel,     And let them yearly plight their vows     Unto the bard they love so well.