  Oh come sweet muse, with well tuned lyre, On this our Robbie’s natal day, A rustic poet’s mind inspire That he may sing a homely lay. Of all the warblers ever born, I dearly love the bard of Ayr, Whose lovely songs both night and morn, Have freed my wearied mind from care. If fault he had, ’twas Nature’s fault, And man, beware that you have none, Before you do yourself exalt, To cast at Robbie Burns a stone. I wish he was with us tonight, To pass a pleasant hour or two, And fill all hearts with rare delight, As he was ever wont to do. Methinks e’en now I see him sit The centre of an eager throng, And hear his ceaseless flow of wit, Or words of some soul stirring song. His lovely songs will e’er be sung, And greener grow his memory, ’Mong people whether old or young, Till father Time has ceased to be. |
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