ODE, Written for, and Performed at the
Celebration of ROBERT BURNS’ Birth-day, Paisley, 29th
Jan.
1807. __ RECITATIVE. WHILE Gallia’s chief, with
cruel conquests vain, Bids clanging trumpets rend the
skies, The widow’s, orphan’s, and the
father’s sighs, Breathe, hissing through the
guilty strain; Mild pity hears the harrowing
tones, Mixt with shrieks and dying
groans; While warm humanity, afar, Weeps o'er the ravages of war: And shudd’ring hears ambition’s
servile train, Rejoicing o'er their
thousands slain. But when the song to worth is
given, The grateful anthem wings its
way to heaven; Rings through the mansions of
the bright abodes, And melts to extasy the
list’ning gods; Apollo, on fire, Strikes with rapture the lyre, And the Muses the summons obey, Joy wings the glad sound, To the worlds around, Till all nature re-echoes the lay,-- Then, raise the song ye vocal
few, Give the praise to merit due. SONG. Set to Music by MR. R. A. SMITH. Tho’ dark scowling winter, in
dismal array, Remarshals his storms on the bleak hoary hill, With joy we assemble to hail
the great day That gave birth
to the Bard who ennobles our isle. Then loud to his merits the
song let us raise, Let each true Caledonian exult
in his praise; For the glory of genius, its
dearest reward, Is the laurel entwin’d by his
country’s regard. Let the Muse bring fresh
honours his name to adorn, Let the voice of glad melody pride in the theme, For the genius of Scotia, in
ages unborn, Will light up her torch at the blaze of his fame: When the dark mist of ages lies
turbid between, Still his star of renown
through the gloom shall be seen, And his rich blooming laurels,
so dear to the Bard, Will be cherish’d for ay by his
country’s regard RECITATIVE. Yes, Burns, “thou dear departed
shade!” When rolling centuries have
fled, Thy name shall still survive
the wreck of time, Shall rouse the genius of thy
native clime; Bards yet unborn, and patriots
shall come, And catch fresh ardour at thy
hallow’d tomb-- There’s not a cairn-built cottage on our hills, Nor rural hamlet on our fertile plains, But echoes to the magic of his strains, While every heart with highest transport thrills: Our country’s melodies shall perish never, For Burns, thy songs shall live forever. Then, once again, ye vocal few, Give the song to merit due. SONG. Written to MARSH’S National Air, “Britons who for freedom bled.” Harmonized as a Glee, by
MR. SMITH. Hail, ye glorious sons of song, Who wrote to humanize the soul! To you our highest strains
belong, Your names shall crown our
friendly bowl: But chiefly Burns, above the rest, We dedicate this night to thee; Engrav’d in every Scotchman’s breast, Thy name, thy worth shall ever be! Fathers of our country’s weal, Sternly vicious, bold and free! Ye taught your sons to fight,
yet feel The dictates of humanity: But
chiefly Burns, above the rest, We dedicate this night to thee; Engrav’d in every Scotchman’s breast, Thy name, thy worth shall ever be! Haughty Gallia threats our
coast, We hear their vaunts with
disregard, Secure in valour, still we
boast, “The Patriot and the Patriot Bard.” But chiefly Burns, above the rest, We dedicate this night to thee; Engrav’d in every Scotchman’s breast, Thy name, thy worth shall ever be! Yes Caledonians! to our country true, Which Danes, nor Romans never could subdue; Firmly resolv’d our native
rights to guard, Let’s toast, “The Patriot and the Patriot Bard.” |