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James Whitcomb Riley - To Robert Burns
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Sweet Singer that I loe the maist
O` ony, sin` wi` eager haste
I smacket bairn-lips ower the taste
O` hinnied sang,
I hail thee, though a blessed ghaist
In Heaven lang!

For weel I ken, nae cantie phrase,
Nor courtly airs, nor lairdly ways,
Could gar me freer blame, or praise,
Or proffer hand,
Where "Rantin` Robbie" and his lays
Thegither stand.

And sae these hamely lines I send,
Wi` jinglin` words at ilka end,
In echo o` the sangs that wend
Frae thee to me
Like simmer-brooks, wi mony a bend
O` wimplin` glee.

In fancy, as wi` dewy een,
I part the clouds aboon the scene
Where thou wast born, and peer atween,
I see nae spot
In a` the Hielands half sae green
And unforgot?

I see nae storied castle-hall,
Wi` banners flauntin` ower the wall
And serf and page in ready call,
Sae grand to me
As ane puir cotter`s hut, wi` all
Its poverty.

There where the simple daisy grew
Sae bonnie sweet, and modest too,
Thy liltin` filled its wee head fu`
O` sic a grace,
It aye is weepin` tears o` dew
Wi` droopit face.

Frae where the heather bluebells fling
Their sangs o` fragrance to the Spring,
To where the lavrock soars to sing,
Still lives thy strain,
For` a` the birds are twittering
Sangs like thine ain.

And aye, by light o` sun or moon,
By banks o` Ayr, or Bonnie Doon,
The waters lilt nae tender tune
But sweeter seems
Because they poured their limpid rune
Through a` thy dreams.

Wi` brimmin` lip, and laughin` ee,
Thou shookest even Grief wi` glee,
Yet had nae niggart sympathy
Where Sorrow bowed,
But gavest a` thy tears as free
As a` thy gowd.

And sae it is we be thy name
To see bleeze up wi` sic a flame,
That a` pretentious stars o` fame
Maun blink asklent,
To see how simple worth may shame
Their brightest glent.
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