'Twas he wha proved " a man's a man," tho' poortith be his lot,

If honest, tho' he whiles may tak' a wee drappie o't.

O sweet he sang o' "Bonnie Doon " an' witchin' "Hallowe'en,"

"Corn rigs, an' shorn rigs," o' "Mary "an'o' "Jean"; The "Limpin' hare," the "Haggis" rare an' "Jenny's" luckless lot,

The reamin' horn on New-Year's morn, an' wee drappie o't.

"Should auld acquaintance be forgot ?" ah no, we'll never tine,

Our love for BURNS it's woven in our hearts wi' "Auld Langsyne."

The ae best fellow e'er was born, the independent Scot, auld Scotia's howes an' knowes, an' wee drappie

Wha

sang o't.

On "a' the airts the win' can blaw" will ROBIN'S fame be

borne,

In spite o' they who try to haud his memʼry up to scorn, While surges roar o'er Berwick-law he ne'er will he forgot, Or Tintock's cap contains a drap—a wee drappie o't.

To the Memory of Burns.

Read at a Meeting held in Commemoration of the Poet's Birth.

FRANCIS BENNOCH.

IMMORTAL Bard !-immortal BURNS!
The patriot and the prince of song,
When friends are met shall they forget
The honours which to thee belong?
Immortal BURNS!

In every land where truth is known,
The music of thy god-like mind
In strains of melting love hath flown
To fraternize the human kind,
Immortal BURNS!

Thy lays have sear'd the tyrant's heart
Like flaming bars of hottest steel,
But raised the poor to know their right
To think as men,-as men to feel,-
Immortal BURNS!

When light and hope, and reason die,
And darkness shrouds the face of day,

And all things fade,—O, only then Shall Scotland's Bard in fame decay. Immortal BURNS!

With reverent silence we will fill
A cup whene'er this day returns,
And pledge the memory of the Bard,
The Bard of Nature-ROBERT Burns.
Immortal BURNS!

Address to Burns.

JAMES D. CRICHTON.

THE circling wheels of Time have roll'd,
And brings the fatal day again,
When Death's dark wings swoop'd to enfold
Thy spirit-king of men !

No idle pomp thy kinghood mock'd

A peasant father's hope and joy; A peasant dame the cradle rock'd That held her black-eyed boy.

Storm mark'd thy entrance into life,
Wild blew the blast that Januar' morn,

Symbolic of turmoil and strife

To which the babe was born.

Grim poverty and sad-eyed care,

Twin sisters, stood beside thy cot; They look'd on their unconscious heir, And dowered him with their lot.

It was not in baronial hall

Or mansion proud that thou was't bred, A cottar's shieling poor and small

Sheltered thy infant head.

But there were virtues 'neath that roof
Gracing but rarely loftier rank,
There evil met with stern reproof,
Good, recognition frank.

There when the toilsome day was sped
The family cluster'd round the board,
The Holy Book by turns they read
With Wisdom's teachings stor'd ;
And when the evening psalm was sung
The peasant father, old and gray,
Surrounded by his children young
Knelt humbly down to pray.

The lessons that he taught thee then
Were not forgot in manhood's prime,
Though happily he might not ken

Grave errors of that time;

But when that father was no more,
Thou shouldering brave the heavy load,
Toil'd to augment the children's store,
And with them worshipp'd God !

Hard task to cleave the stubborn soil
That barely might a pittance yield,
And make a golden harvest smile
Above a barren field.

Lochlea thy patient struggles saw,
Tasking thy strength both late and air,
And Mossgiel's wind-swept upland raw
Thy hour of dark despair!

Yet there were raptures known to thee

When friends were powerless to condole,