Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 56, Number 347, September, 1844

Stir the beal-fire, wave the banner,
Bid the thundering cannon sound—
Rend the skies with acclamation,
Stun the woods and waters round—
Till the echoes of our gathering
Turn the world’s admiring gaze
To this act of duteous homage
Scotland to her poet pays.
Fill the banks and braes with music,
Be it loud and low by turns—
This we owe the deathless glory,
That the hapless fate of Burns.

II

Born within the lowly cottage
To a destiny obscure,
Doom’d through youth’s exulting spring-time
But to labour and endure—
Yet Despair he elbow’d from him;
Nature breathed with holy joy,
In the hues of morn and evening,
On the eyelids of the boy;
And his country’s Genius bound him
Laurels for his sun-burn’d brow,
When inspired and proud she found him,
Like Elisha, at the plough.

III

On, exulting in his magic,
Swept the gifted peasant on—
Though his feet were on the greensward,
Light from heaven around him shone;
At his conjuration, demons
Issued from their darkness drear;
Hovering round on silver pinions,
Angels stoop’d his songs to hear;
Bow’d the Passions to his bidding,
Terror gaunt, and Pity calm;
Like the organ pour’d his thunder,
Like the lute his fairy psalm.

IV

Lo, when clover-swathes lay round him,
Or his feet the furrow press’d,
He could mourn the sever’d daisy,
Or the mouse’s ruin’d nest;
Woven of gloom and glory, visions
Haunting throng’d his twilight hour;
Birds enthrall’d him with sweet music,
Tempests with their tones of power;
Eagle-wing’d his mounting spirit
Custom’s rusty fetters spurn’d;
Tasso-like, for Jean he melted
Wallace-like, for Scotland burn’d!

V

Scotland!—dear to him was Scotland,
In her sons and in her daughters,
In her Highlands,—Lowlands,—Islands,—
Regal woods, and rushing waters;—
In the glory of her story,
When her tartans fired the field,—
Scotland! oft betray’d—beleagur’d—
Scotland! never known to yield!
Dear to him her Doric language,—
Thrill’d his heart-strings at her name;—
And he left her more than rubies,
In the riches of his fame.

VI

Sons of England!—Sons of Erin!
Ye who, journeying from afar,
Throng with us the shire of Coila,
Led by Burns’s guiding star—
Proud we greet you—ye will join us,
As, on this triumphant day,
To the champions of his genius
Grateful thanks we duly pay—
Currie—Chambers—Lockhart—Wilson—
Carlyle—who his bones to save
From the wolfish fiend, Detraction,
Couch’d like lions round his grave.

VII

Daughter of the poet’s mother!
Here we hail thee with delight;
Shower’d be every earthly blessing
On thy locks of silver white!—
Sons of Burns, a hearty welcome,
Welcome home from India’s strand,
To a heart-loved land far dearer,
Since your glorious Father’s land:—
Words are worthless—look around you—
Labour’d tomes far less could say