Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, FIRST ANNIVERSARY BANQUET OF A NEWLY FORMED BURNS' CLUB IN MANCHESTER, by JANET HAMILTON


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

FIRST ANNIVERSARY BANQUET OF A NEWLY FORMED BURNS' CLUB IN MANCHESTER, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: High bard of scotia, brightest son of song
Last Line: The day we bless—the natal day of burns.
Alternate Author Name(s): Hamilton, Janet Thompson
Subject(s): Burns, Robert (1759-1796); Clubs (associations); Poetry & Poets


HIGH Bard of Scotia, brightest son of song,
Who boldly swept his master hand along
The golden strings of Caledonia's lyre,
And pour'd in magic strains and words of fire
The witching songs of love; its hopes and fears
Of love in death, embalmed with burning tears,
Of blooming nature in her flow'ry prime;
Of pathos deep, and sentiment sublime,
Of humour quaint, and wit's keen lightning glance;
The midnight's orgies of the witches' dance;
The song of Saturday's sweet evening rest,
Dear to the cottar, eve of Sabbath blest.
No sweeter music poet's hand hath wrung
From Scotia's lyre—no son of genius sung
In loftier strains—no patriot's battle cry
Like his can nerve the arm when foes are nigh.
But time forbids that we should longer dwell
On themes that thrill the heart, the bosom swell—
The name, the tuneful fame of Robert Burns,
Still to the "Auld Clay Biggin'" memory turns,
Where Scotia's genius, robed in tartan screen,
In vision'd beauty, by the bard was seen,
Binding upon his brow the holy wreath
That crown'd him King of Song in life and death.
We hail with joy and pride his natal day,
Our votive offerings on his shrine we lay,
And pay with honours meet and high regard
The homage due to Scotia's deathless bard.
Deem'd not his sire, nor mother faint and worn,
That to their arms that wild and wintry morn
A child of genius, heir of song and fame,
Was given? The halo circling round his name
Still broader, brighter grows; within its light
In bonds of brotherhood we meet to-night,
And hail with glowing hearts, with song and mirth,
The day's return that saw the poet's birth,
Not now as "Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled,"
Long laid to rest on freedom's gory bed—
Not as of yore in battle's fierce turmoil:
We meet as brothers on fair England's soil,
And here with clasping hands and hearts unite,
While mingling round the festive board to-night,
To hail the infant year, for then returns
The day we bless—the natal day of Burns.





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