tlemen were not then ashamed, he was no worse and no better in this respect, than the lairds and elders of Mossgiel and Dumfries, who held him in such scorn, and whom he pilloried in his satiric verse.

A brave fight he made of his life, against outrageous fortune, for wife and bairns; and when he died he could look the world in the face as an honest man. Perhaps if he had not been so sturdily independent, it had been better for him. Perchance if he had not been so gifted, he had been more successful in the ordinary occupations of life. Nature made him a poet. He tried hard to be a farmer. He could not be both. But he was brave enough to make the attempt. He never relinquished the unequal struggle till death gave him an honorable discharge. He was true to his higher calling, and yet toiled for his daily bread like the veriest hind. He never degraded his muse to the level of a money-getting gift. He never made his genius an excuse from honest toil. He was an intellectual Sampson set to grind in the prison house of a Philistine age, and not till the earth closed upon his sorrows did Scotland fully discern the light so early extinguished with his life.

But the early wish of his brave and loyal heart was realized:

"That I for poor auld Scotland's sake

Some useful plan or book could make,
Or sing a sang at least."

He did that, and did it well. Against fate he achieved an immortal influence. He came, he passed, but the world is richer for his sad life. Bring forth the bays, and bind

"The holly round his head,

The polished leaves and berries red."

There is none other to dispute the laurel with Robbie, or divide a Scotchman's love. He abides in the hearts his songs have delighted. And while the soul of man shall respond to the voice of affection and to the noblest sentiments of our humanity, he is sure of a warm welcome and loving regard.

It is just one hundred years, since, amid the discouragements of his life at Ellisland, he brought forth from the treasure of his rich heart, the song," Should auld acquaint

ance be forgot," which has gone round the world, and united hearts and hands in the spell of sacred memories. From the farm, where, in 1788, the shadows were thickly falling on his path, Burns sends us his challenge of eternal friendship; and back across a hundred years our hearts auswer. Yes! departed shade of Robbie Burns, yes!

"For auld lang syne, my dear,

For auld lang syne."

BURNS'S COTTAGE.

BY JAMES D. LAW.

WEE Cottage by the Banks o' Doon,

You roof is laigh, your rooms are narrow,

But we may search the warl' aroun',

And look for lang to get your marrow.

Mair honor'd are your rugged wa's

That thro' the years so steively stand,

Than a' the Castles, College Ha's

And Kirks in Scotia's classic land!

Here was the humble peasant born

Who took Dame Nature for his teacher,

And, holding caste and creed in scorn,

Became his country's greatest preacher:
Who ruled thro' Love and Wit by turns,
And still is KING of all his clan,
Our darling Bard, rare Robert Burns,
Above all titles yet-A MAN!

THE BURNS STATUE AT AYR.

WHAT stir is this in Ayr's old town,

What means this mirth this morning?

Is it the coming of a king,

With stars his breast adorning.

And is the royal pageant near
With all its pomp and splendor?
To whom the waiting crowds ere long
Their homage due shall tender.

Ay, it is homage to a king,
One who in years departed,

Trod dreaming o'er these self-same streets,
A king, but stricken hearted.

He was a king in songland's bowers;
The sweetest of all singers:

The doric harp of Caledon,

He swept with master fingers.

He came to earth unheralded
By gilded trump or tabor,
Sang of our joys, our loves, our cares,
And gave a crown to labor.

Though in a straw-roof'd cottage born
And linked with want forever,
His name is breathed with love to-day,
From Doom to Ganges river.

For who has not o'er "Auld Lang Syne,"
In camp or cottage lowly,
Repressed a sob, and felt his soul
Stirred with a something holy.

Who has not revelled o'er the tale
Of drouthy Tam O'Shanter,
And in his dreams beheld the mare
Witch-hunted homeward canter.

POEM ATTRIBUTED TO BURNS.

THE following verses appeared in the Grafton Argus (Australia), and had been sent to the editor with the assurance that they were written by Burns, and had not been previously published, so far as the sender knew. The friend from whom I got them had headed them "Words of