ROBERT BURNS.(Written for the Burns Centennial, Jan. 25, 1859, and reprinted at the request of friends in Scotland.)
When the frost had killed the daisies
And the hills were white with snow,
Robert Burns was born in Ayrshire
Just a hundred years ago.
Cold about the cottage ingle
When the cloudy night fell down,
Blew the wind from off the moorlands
Where the heath was crisp and brown
But the boy was summer's darling,
Made of music, love, and fire,
And the winter could not harm him,
Let it wreak its utmost ire.
Now a hundred years are numbered,
Yet we hail the happy morn
When, amid the Ayrshire snow-wreaths,
Robert Burns, the man, was born!
And King of Hearts he reigns to-day,
While the noble throng around him,
God be praised that a man has sway
And the wide world's love has crowned him!
And the hills were white with snow,
Robert Burns was born in Ayrshire
Just a hundred years ago.
Cold about the cottage ingle
When the cloudy night fell down,
Blew the wind from off the moorlands
Where the heath was crisp and brown
But the boy was summer's darling,
Made of music, love, and fire,
And the winter could not harm him,
Let it wreak its utmost ire.
Now a hundred years are numbered,
Yet we hail the happy morn
When, amid the Ayrshire snow-wreaths,
Robert Burns, the man, was born!
And King of Hearts he reigns to-day,
While the noble throng around him,
God be praised that a man has sway
And the wide world's love has crowned him!
