BURNS.
29
Pilgrims whose wandering feet have pressed
The Switzer’s snow, the Arab’s sand,
Or trod the piled leaves of the West,
My own green forest-land.
All ask the cottage of his birth,
Gaze on the scenes he loved and sung,
And gather feelings not of earth
His fields and streams among.
They linger by the Doon’s low trees,
And pastoral Nith, and wooded Ayr,
And round thy sepulchres, Dumfries!
The poet’s tomb is there.
But what to them the sculptor’s art,
His funeral columns, wreaths and urns?
Wear they not graven on the heart
The name of Robert Burns?
