Robert Burns

Anonymous, "The Tomb of Burns" Aberdeen Magazine 2 (February 1797) 92-93.

Lo! sadly seated on yon cald hard stane,
Our Country's Genius hangs his hoary head;
The mournfu' draps stand in his bloodshot een,
And thus he grieves for Burns, now gane and dead.

Alas! Alas! nae mair he'll sing the pranks
O' lads an' lasses, merry full o' glee;
Nae mair o' daisies, nor o' cowslip banks,
Nor, makin' verses, tramp alang the lee.

I' the cald yird, aneath the girse green sod,
Mould'rin to dust his mortal body lies;
And fills the dark, the silent, drear abode,
Of rich and poor, and ilka ane that dies.

Of obscure birth, untutor'd in book lear,
Yet kent in Nature's secrets and her ways;
Tho' humble, poor, yet flam'd the innate fire,
And warm'd a Scotland wi' its genial rays.

Tho' dead, he lives yet i' the book of fame;
A lang, lang time he'll live wi' mickle praise:
And prattlin' bairns shall lisp his favour'd name,
And tottrin' age repeat, by heart, his lays.