As in the lone sequester'd grove,
The woodlark on the bending spray,
Attunes to liberty and love
The sportive lay:
'Twas thus in mountain scenes retir'd,
That Scotia's minstrel, nature's child,
Would sing, by ardent genius fir'd,
His carol wild.
In poverty his generous heart,
With freedom and with fancy glow'd;
And native strains untaught by art,
Spontaneous flow'd.
Oh! Burns, to every feeling breast,
To every gentle mind sincere,
By love and tender pity blest,
Thy song is dear.
Sweet bard! 'twas thine to soar on high,
With inspiration and the muse;
To claim from beauty's radiant eye
Compassion's dews;
To raise the smile of social glee,
The patriot's manly heart to fire;
Or wake the tear of sympathy,
With plaintive lyre.
Sweet bard! for thee the muses mourn,
In melting lays they sing thy name;
And twine, to deck thy sacred urn,
The wreath of fame.