Daily Kennebec journal. [microfilm reel] (Augusta, Me.) 1870-1975, 1878-03-30
NO. H..
Mistellaitecus.
MY VOLUME OF BURNS.
Poem for the Anniversary OF the Poets
Birthday.


Sometimes at close o. hard days work.
Beset with cares cannot shirk,
Depressed, bewildered. giving vent
To bootless spleen and discontent;
| wander home unsettled quite
A curtain like the murky night
Hangs oer my soul, and yet know
My sky should not be elouded SO.
A voice within me whispers then,
Lift up thy heart like other men,
And let the homelight's cosy cheer
Shine in. What boots depression here
share the clean spread evening board,
For me the geniel cup is poured,
| smile-aha, that genial cup
Hath walked my better nature up.
o blest nepenthe Light within,
A rainbow where the cloud hath BEEN
10, have friends,-my lifeblood starts
Responsive to their throbbing hearts.
Rare friends whose love and sympathy
Flowed out for dear humanity;
Living tho dead, ay, standing there,
Companions by my evening chair.
Old Spenser, Moore, Scott, Milton, Keats,
Shakespeare, whose verse the world repeats
prize them all; but my heart turns
Most lovingly to Robert Burns,
Whose pleasant face smiles from the shelf
On that rare volume, all himself;
Rich treasury of the hearts own songs,
Which to the world at large belongs.
Not Scotlsnd's heathery banks aud braes
Could circumscribe her poets lays.
Nor can her sons exclusive claim
The heritage of his great name.
His magic strains have found their way
Where eer the muse hath power to sway,
And moved with sympathetic glee
The great heart of humanity.
| ope and read that charming lay,
Night Of the cotter's Saturday;
And hear the good mans prayer ascend
To Him, Protector, Father, Friend.
share the poets tender love
For Msry's soul in Heaven above;
And almost feel his grief my own,
So toGchingly his heart makes moan.
| see the modest crimson flower
That met him in the "evil hour"
Crushed by the ploughshare, and feel
The beauty of his sweet appeal.
Aud now before my very eyes
The psnic-strcken mousie hies,
As crash, into his "wee bit" home
The coulter brings relentless doom.
If would laugh, why, then, instanter,
turn to jolly Tam O'Shanter,
The brick, who all the sage advices
OF good wife derides, despises.
And while the hapless woman worries
OF on a bender straight he hurries,
And sprees 1t late, till tempests lower
And birthstone scents the midnight hour.
see him homeward draw the rein,
On frightened Mag with anxious strain,
Giving full many lively jerk,
As now he nears the haunted kirk,
Where, by the lightning's sudden glance
Revealed, the witches jig and dance;
Led on by Nan, the Guilty sark,
Thro' reels mysterious, strange and dark.
see him pause to spy the fun,
| hear his lusty shout, "loeel done"
When, presto! all the screeching bitches
lake after him with fails and switches.
The bold in wassail, where Is now
The pluck he ne'er could disavow
They'll have him by the lightning's CLEAN,
Ere he can pass the running stream.
Right brisk the race for life begins;
Slim chance for Tam, whose many sins
Weigh hard ON him aud Maggie, too,
Pursued by such hellish crew.
They clutch at Tam who lodges, pale,
They grab for Magge's switching tail,
They scatter birthstone, Man the hag,
A spiteful vengeance has for Mag.
o for the keystone o. the BRIDGE
Three leaps aud Mag will clear the ridge
Whereby the bridge DER spans the water,
And save a hapless soul from slaughter.
But hold your senses Who can tell
What chances in q moment dwell,
Or why, when pluck bids tair to win,
Old Nick should oftimes claw US in
Whisk DER the keystone plank but 10,
One swoop and the remorseless foe,
Takes Oft with graphing claw and nail,
The switching part o Msggies tail;
And with the trophy off they skelp,-
Tam cursing loud both bag and whelp,
And moaning Maggie's untoward fate,
Crossing the stream Q moment late.
All, many moments late for Tam!
The wife's advice was not q sham;
Foul luck betides his evil ways,
He'll smell O. birthstone all his days
While Maggie, in dismembered plight
A melancholy, shocking sight,
Shall never -ore when tiends assall,
shake at the foe wrathful tail.
close the volume--but mine ear
Is ringing with an accent clear;
And to my heart full oft returns
Thy glowing lines-sweet Robert Burns.
And whilst the days and years go on,
Tho much be lost and little won,
I'll thank thee for the hours made bright
With songs which thou hast sung Alright;
For melody and wit and glee,
The charm of thy rare minstrelsy;
And tender words of love and cheer,
Which human hearts delight to hear.
I'll thank thee for thy bonnie gems,
Sweet howerets on their native stems,
Sprung from the soil, aud therefore priced
Liie's tears and smiles mmortslized.
Themes which thy visioned Cola made
Thy special care, when soft she laid
Her hand upon thy forehead fair,
And gently bound the holly there.
Charging thou ne'er should turn aside
From these the pathways thou hast tried
Foreshadowing thine the brilliant fame
That keeps n gifted poet's mama