The world is old! States, Empires, Kings,
Have risen, ruled, and pass'd away;
Yet David harps, and Homer sings,
And he of Avon speaks to-day.

The living song will still abide;
And when our age is dust in urns,
The world, as now, will own, with pride,
Its life-long debt to Robert Burns.

His touch was universal birth;
He set his native streams to tune;
And every corner of the earth
Knows Nith and Lugar, Ayr and Doon.

His homes we seek, his haunts we trace,
Wherever thought of him is found;
We follow him from place to place,
And all is consecrated ground.

On things that disregarded lie
His look bequeath'd a priceless dower:
The trodden daisy caught his eye,
And blossom'd an immortal flower.

Love's tender throes with him became
A sweet religion; and he poured
Such floods of beauty round a name,
That all men love whom he adored.

The patriot-hero's brows he bound
With wreaths, eternal as the sun:
The lowly honest man he crown'd;
He made the king and beggar one.

For well he knew that Lord , or King ,
Was but a word. With deeper scan,
He made both peer and peasant sing
Their highest title still was — Man .

In " shooting folly as it flew, "
There never was a deadlier aim;
And even those his satire slew,
Are joint partakers of his fame.

He lash'd the bigot; his the creed
Embracing all humanity;
A conscience clear in word and deed —
One Father, God; and brethren, we.

And if we blame the sparkling rhymes
That made the maddening cup sublime,
Think only of the alter'd times,
And give the censure to the time.

In humour, friendship, pity, worth —
In themes that change not with the day —
Broad Nature, felt o'er all the earth —
His genius holds unmeasur'd sway.

Great Prince of song! to mark thy fame,
O for a moment of thy pen!
'Twere needless pains — thy living name
Is written on the hearts of men.

Our gilt makes not thy gold more bright;
But hearts enrich'd would yield returns:
A world of homage meets to-night,
And every thought breathes R OBERT Burns .