Classic Poem

Decori Scotiae et Humanitatis

The muse I wooed at fifty-two
Bore me these urchin lays,
Which raise their lowly heads anew
Since quickened by thy praise.

Will they live on, to vindicate
The memory of their sire,
Whom Fate compelled to leave to fate
These foundlings of his lyre?

What care we? Ere the pyramids
The priests of Isis sang,
While on the kingly coffin-lids
The graver's chisel rang,

Carving great deeds on stone to cheat
Oblivion of its prey,
Until the last reveille should beat
The dawn of Judgment Day.

The priests are dust, the crumbling fane
In piteous ruin lies;
In loving hearts the holy strain
Of David never dies.