Classic Poem

Hail to thee, King of Scottish song!
With all thy faults we love thee,
Nor would we set up modern saints,
For all their cant, above thee.
There hangs a grandeur and a gloom
Around thy wondrous story,
As of the sun eclips'd at noon,
'Mid all his beams of glory.

A marvel and a mystery!
A king set on a throne
To guide the people's steps aright,
Yet could not guide his own.
A marvel and a mystery!
A strange, a wondrous birth —
Since Israel's king there has not been
Thy likeness upon earth.

For thou wert the ordain'd of Heaven,
Thy mission's high and holy;
To thee the noble work was given
To lift the poor and lowly.
Thy words are living, soulful things,
Around the world they're ringing;
Hope's smiles they bear, and ev'rywhere
Set weary hearts a-singing.

Untutor'd child of Nature wild,
With instincts always true,
Oh, when I'm weary of the saints
I turn with joy to you!
The bigot and the blockhead still
Are at thy mem'ry railing,
Because thou wert a son of Eve,
And had a human failing.

A benefactor of our race,
Yet on the face they strike thee,
And, like the Pharisee of old,
Thank God they are not like thee.
Well, let them rave above thy grave,
Thou canst not hear their railings;
We take thee to our heart of hearts,
With all thy faults and failings.

For they were human at the worst —
True hearts can but deplore them —
The faults from which great virtues spring,
We throw a mantle o'er them.
And loving souls in ev'ry place
Still hail thee as a brother;
Like thee, thou glory of our race,
Where shall we find another?