I.
Though humble, yet not mean, my lays
Ne'er stoop to false or venal praise,
To wealth unknown, I wealth disdain,
And give to worth my artless strain:
I sing the man, who's doom'd to stray
Unmark'd in life's sequester'd way,
Yet far above the vulgar throng
Inspir'd with love of arts, and pow'rs of sacred song.
II.
His birth obscure, no pomp of race,
No wealth, nor splendid hopes shall grace,
He'll spurn the infant's glitt'ring toys,
And shun the sports of childish noise;
But court alone the muse's smile,
While nature's charms his soul beguile;
And more than fortune's joys he'll prize
The beauty of the fields, and brightness of the skies.
III.
When Spring, returning to the earth,
Gives ev'ry fruit and flow'ret birth,
And, in new verdure cloath'd, the grove
Again renews the song of love,
Delighted, oft with eager feet,
He'll hail each op'ning bloom and sweet,
With swelling heart the scene survey,
And pour, by nature fir'd, the soul-inchanting lay.
IV.
At Summer noon-tide from the heat
He'll seek in groves a green retreat,
And, poring on the babbling stream,
Indulge some sweet poetic dream.
When Autumn crowns the vary'd year,
And suns a milder radiance wear,
He'll walk at cool of setting day,
And gaze with wistful eye on the departing ray.
V.
When Winter o'er the dreary plains
Confess'd in all its horrors reigns,
When icy streams forget to flow,
And hills are hid beneath the snow,
No prospect seen around to rise,
But chearless wastes and cloudy skies,
He'll sympathize with nature's state,
And muse in mournful strains the wrecks of time and fate.
VI.
He nature loves in ev'ry form,
Alike the sunshine and the storm;
Though pleas'd the murm'ring rill he view
Through flow'ry meads its course pursue,
Not less he hears the torrent's roar,
Hoarse dashing on the sounding shore,
Nor brightest skies delight his soul
More than when lightnings flash, and thunders rend the pole.
VII.
His is the bosom form'd to prove
Excess of friendship and of love;
His — ardour, that impetuous glows,
And pity — his, that melting flows;
No common feelings doom'd to share,
His joy is rapture, grief — despair:
By joy exalted to the skies,
But, ah! by grief depress'd how low on earth he lies!
VIII.
And as each passion rules the hour,
The willing muse shall own its pow'r:
Now he shall sing in am'rous strains
The lover's joys, the lover's pains;
Now soothing pleasure shall inspire,
Now ardent glory rouse the lyre;
Now fancy's sprightly lays shall flow,
Now melancholy's strains, more solemn, soft, and flow.
IX.
He'll shun the busy haunts of noise,
And scorn the wealthy's sordid joys;
But chiefly in the rural cell,
The muse's haunt he'll chuse to dwell,
In nature's scenes he'll love to stray,
And meditate the lonely lay:
To worldly joy and care unknown,
The muse shall fill his mind, and mark him as her own
X.
And though in life's sequester'd way
Unknown, unnotic'd he may stray,
Or doom'd in his disastrous state
To prove the ills of partial fate;
Yet future times, to worth more just,
Shall deck the tomb, and rear the bust,
Shall bid his mem'ry death defy,
And give on wings of fame through ev'ry age to fly.
XI.
Hail, Burns! thou pride of Scotia's swains!
Born to restore her antient strains,
Far richer in thy native store,
Than treasures of scholastic lore;
Ah! let not genius, heav'nly ray,
Like some false meteor lead astray;
Sacred to virtue be thy rage,
Nor ought polluted stain the lustre of thy page.
XII.
For him, who in these strains essays
To give poetic merit praise,
And fir'd with youthful ardour tries
To heights above his years to rife,
Yet, though unequal to aspire,
Can others excellence admire,
Be his, though small, no vulgar fame,
To feel the thirst of praise, and glow with virtue's flame.
Though humble, yet not mean, my lays
Ne'er stoop to false or venal praise,
To wealth unknown, I wealth disdain,
And give to worth my artless strain:
I sing the man, who's doom'd to stray
Unmark'd in life's sequester'd way,
Yet far above the vulgar throng
Inspir'd with love of arts, and pow'rs of sacred song.
II.
His birth obscure, no pomp of race,
No wealth, nor splendid hopes shall grace,
He'll spurn the infant's glitt'ring toys,
And shun the sports of childish noise;
But court alone the muse's smile,
While nature's charms his soul beguile;
And more than fortune's joys he'll prize
The beauty of the fields, and brightness of the skies.
III.
When Spring, returning to the earth,
Gives ev'ry fruit and flow'ret birth,
And, in new verdure cloath'd, the grove
Again renews the song of love,
Delighted, oft with eager feet,
He'll hail each op'ning bloom and sweet,
With swelling heart the scene survey,
And pour, by nature fir'd, the soul-inchanting lay.
IV.
At Summer noon-tide from the heat
He'll seek in groves a green retreat,
And, poring on the babbling stream,
Indulge some sweet poetic dream.
When Autumn crowns the vary'd year,
And suns a milder radiance wear,
He'll walk at cool of setting day,
And gaze with wistful eye on the departing ray.
V.
When Winter o'er the dreary plains
Confess'd in all its horrors reigns,
When icy streams forget to flow,
And hills are hid beneath the snow,
No prospect seen around to rise,
But chearless wastes and cloudy skies,
He'll sympathize with nature's state,
And muse in mournful strains the wrecks of time and fate.
VI.
He nature loves in ev'ry form,
Alike the sunshine and the storm;
Though pleas'd the murm'ring rill he view
Through flow'ry meads its course pursue,
Not less he hears the torrent's roar,
Hoarse dashing on the sounding shore,
Nor brightest skies delight his soul
More than when lightnings flash, and thunders rend the pole.
VII.
His is the bosom form'd to prove
Excess of friendship and of love;
His — ardour, that impetuous glows,
And pity — his, that melting flows;
No common feelings doom'd to share,
His joy is rapture, grief — despair:
By joy exalted to the skies,
But, ah! by grief depress'd how low on earth he lies!
VIII.
And as each passion rules the hour,
The willing muse shall own its pow'r:
Now he shall sing in am'rous strains
The lover's joys, the lover's pains;
Now soothing pleasure shall inspire,
Now ardent glory rouse the lyre;
Now fancy's sprightly lays shall flow,
Now melancholy's strains, more solemn, soft, and flow.
IX.
He'll shun the busy haunts of noise,
And scorn the wealthy's sordid joys;
But chiefly in the rural cell,
The muse's haunt he'll chuse to dwell,
In nature's scenes he'll love to stray,
And meditate the lonely lay:
To worldly joy and care unknown,
The muse shall fill his mind, and mark him as her own
X.
And though in life's sequester'd way
Unknown, unnotic'd he may stray,
Or doom'd in his disastrous state
To prove the ills of partial fate;
Yet future times, to worth more just,
Shall deck the tomb, and rear the bust,
Shall bid his mem'ry death defy,
And give on wings of fame through ev'ry age to fly.
XI.
Hail, Burns! thou pride of Scotia's swains!
Born to restore her antient strains,
Far richer in thy native store,
Than treasures of scholastic lore;
Ah! let not genius, heav'nly ray,
Like some false meteor lead astray;
Sacred to virtue be thy rage,
Nor ought polluted stain the lustre of thy page.
XII.
For him, who in these strains essays
To give poetic merit praise,
And fir'd with youthful ardour tries
To heights above his years to rife,
Yet, though unequal to aspire,
Can others excellence admire,
Be his, though small, no vulgar fame,
To feel the thirst of praise, and glow with virtue's flame.