In a pleasant little valley near the ancient town of Ayr,
Where the laddies they are honest, and the lassies they are fair;
Where Doon in all her splendour ripples sweetly thro’ the wood,
And on its banks not long ago a little cottage stood,
’Twas there in all her splendour, on a January morn,
Appeared old Colia’s genius,—when Robert Burns was born.

Her mantle large of greenish hue and robe of tartan shone,
And round its mystic border seen was Luger, Ayr, and Doon;
A leaf-clad holly bough was twined so graceful round her brow,
She was the darling native muse of Scotia’s Colia:
So grand old Colia’s genius on this January morn,
Appeared in all her splendour when Robert Burns was born.

She vowed she ne’er would leave him till he sung old Scotia’s plains,
The daisy, and the milk-white thorn he tuned in lovely strains;
And sung of yellow autumn, or some lovely banks and braes:
And make each cottage home resound with his sweet tuneful lays,
And sing how Colia’s genius, on a January morn,
Appeared in all her splendour when Robert Burns was born.

She could not teach him painting like her Cunningham at home,
Nor could she teach him sculpturing like Angelo of Rome:
But she taught him how to wander her lovely hills among,
And sing her bonny burns and glens in simple rustic song;
This old Colia’s genius did that January morn,
Vow in all her splendour when Robert Burns was born.

And in the nights of winter when stormy winds do roar,
And the fierce dashing waves is heard on Ayr’s old craggy shore,
The young and old encircled are around the cheerful fire,
Will talk of Rob the Ploughman and tune the Scottish lyre;
And sing how Colia’s genius on a January morn,
Appeared in all her splendour when Robert Burns was born.