Scottish Poets.

The following ode was read by the author at the Centennial Anniversary of Burns in the year 1859.             This night shall never be forgot                 For humble life none now despise,             Since Burns was born in lowly cot                 Whose muses wing soars to the skies.             'Round Scotia's brow he wove a wreath                 And raised her name in classic story             A deathless fame he did bequeath,                 His country's pride, his country's glory.             He sang her hills, he sang her dales,                 Of Bonnie Doon and Banks of Ayr,             Of death and Hornbook and such tales                 As Tam O'Shanter and his mare.             He bravely taught that manly worth                 More precious is than finest gold,             He reckoned not on noble birth,                 But noble deeds alone extolled.             Where will we find behind the plow                 Or in the harvest field at toil             Another youth, sweet bard, like thou,                 Could draw the tear or raise the smile.             We do not think 'twas Burns' fault,                 For there were no teetotalers then,             That Willie brewed a peck of malt                 And Robin preed like other men.             'Tis true he loved the lasses dear,                 But who for this would loudly blame,             For Scotia's maids his heart did cheer                 And love is a true heavenly flame.             So here we've met in distant land                 Poor honest Robin to extol,             Though oft we differ let us stand                 United now in Ingersoll.