* BURNS’ CENTENARY *

“My fame is sure; when I am dead

A century,” the Poet said,

“They'll heap the honours on my head

They grudge me noo”;

To-day the hundred years hae sped

That prove it true.

Whiles as the feathered ages flee,

Time sets the sand-glass on his knee,

An’ ilka name baith great an’ wee

Shak's thro’ his sieve;

Syne sadly wags his pow to see

The few that live.

An’ still the quickest o’ the lot

Is his wha made the lowly cot

A shrine, whaur ilka rev'rent Scot

Bareheadit turns.

Our mither's psalms may be forgot,

But never Burns.

This nicht, auld Scotland, dry your tears,

An’ let nae sough o’ grief come near's;

We'll speak o’ Rab's gin he could hear's;

Life's but a fivver,

And he's been healed this hundred years

To live for ever.