Scottish Poets

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.