Robert Burns

O MY Poet! thou didst cast it
In the furrow of the years,
That " A man 's a man for a' that; "
Thou didst water it with tears.
Now the harvest-time is coming;
Now the fields are white with grain;
Thou, the sower, art the reaper,
Binding sheaves on every plain.
From thy errors we absolve thee,
Soul at rest beneath the sod! —
Say, " He was of man the lover;
Leave him to the love of God. "

There are kings with crown and sceptre
Ruling proud o'er shores and seas; —
Thou hast empire wider, grander,
Than the stateliest of these.
Theirs by mountain chains is bounded,
Or a river's winding line;
Thine sweeps broad from tropic palm-trees
To the farthest polar pine.
And, till dawn millennial ages,
As their memory backward turns,
Truest Brother, sweetest Singer,
Men shall reckon Robert Burns.
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