O  Scotland's  j^reat  and  deathless  bard !

My  moilest  muse  would  have  ihee  starred.
Thou  Chief  of  Poesy's  native  art.
That  reijjned  and  n-ijin  o'er  every  heart,

A  touch  <»f  pity  knows  to  feel.
While  weepinj?  eye  the  tear  shall  steal

From  inmost  love  that  'rays  a  soul.
And  feels  a  calm  when  death-bells  toll.
That  comes  to  hearts  that  ken  this  state

The  poorer  half  that  finds  its  mate,

When  life  and  death  are  hand  in  hand.
And  seraphs  join  the  broken  band!

O  lovely  bard  by  nature  crowned  I

With  an>:el  forms  soft  flitting  round!

Be  mine  the  hand  from  foreign  clime.
To  steal  the  sweetness  of  thy  rhyme.
The  highor  thoughts  that  ch)the  thy  verse.
And  of  thy  land  a  tale  rehearse  !

The  harsher  ones  might  name  thee  bad.
But  ah !  to  me,  thy  life  was  sad,

•And  full  of  beauties  many  a  heart

Would  gladly  claim  as  all  their  art.
And  risk  a  fate  that  stalks  the  gloom

Which  deepens  round  the  charnel  tomb;

Thy  powers  were  such  no  hand  might  tame.
And  whirled  thy  passions  like  a  flame.
That  lesser  souls  can  reck  no  thought.
For  tamer  fires  but  tamely  caught,

Are  easier  held  in  virtue's  way ;

Yet  on  the  goils  they  turn  to  slay.
And  weakly  raise  a  mockerj'  cross,

And  o'er  their  lives  shout :  '*Loss,  oh,  loss!'*

While  they  themselves  with  souls  on  tire,

With  magic  art  to  verse  the  lyre,

E'en  might  have  sunk  to  lower  deeps,

For  powers  like  his  a  whirlwind  sweeps,

And  be  he  strong  in  every  trait,

A  mightier  force  shall  name  his  fate.
