Robert Burns

J. D. C., "On Reading a Description of the Mausoleum of Robert Burns" The Sun (16 March 1822).

The rose-bud emits a perfume
When the life of the flow'ret is o'er;
And thy name shall be known, when the tomb
Shall read its high portals no more.
Thy altar is built in the heart,
And its incense shall smoke to the sky;
Though the body from hence may depart,
Yet the brighter part never can die.

On thy grave the soft heath-bell grows wild,
And the thistle of Scotia is seen;
Mother Nature, the home of her child
Bedecks with the mantle of green.
And there, by the Moon's waning light,
"Tam O'Shanter" rides o'er the wild moor,
And the "Cotter," on "Saturday night,"
Drops a tear, "'mid November's loud roar."

Ye woodlark and martlet, go rest
On this grave pour your sweet warbling tone,
Build over his ashes your nest,
For his music's as wild as your own.
Teach your younglings to whistle his fame
From the ivy that circles his urn,
Till the mountains re-echo his name,
And the vallies the echoes return.