Scottish Poets.

The following ode was read by the author at the Centennial Anniversary of Burns in the year 1859.

This night shall never be forgot

For humble life none now despise,

Since Burns was born in lowly cot

Whose muses wing soars to the skies.

'Round Scotia's brow he wove a wreath

And raised her name in classic story

A deathless fame he did bequeath,

His country's pride, his country's glory.

He sang her hills, he sang her dales,

Of Bonnie Doon and Banks of Ayr,

Of death and Hornbook and such tales

As Tam O'Shanter and his mare.

He bravely taught that manly worth

More precious is than finest gold,

He reckoned not on noble birth,

But noble deeds alone extolled.

Where will we find behind the plow

Or in the harvest field at toil

Another youth, sweet bard, like thou,

Could draw the tear or raise the smile.

We do not think 'twas Burns' fault,

For there were no teetotalers then,

That Willie brewed a peck of malt

And Robin preed like other men.

'Tis true he loved the lasses dear,

But who for this would loudly blame,

For Scotia's maids his heart did cheer

And love is a true heavenly flame.

So here we've met in distant land

Poor honest Robin to extol,

Though oft we differ let us stand

United now in Ingersoll.