But sorrow's tale gets gey short shrift,
When cronies meet on Burns's nicht,
For Love and Laughter is the.Licht
That guides them through,
Wi' maybe a sober thocht or twa
On Friendship true.
Folly even, may find a' place,
Ill humour never leaves a trace,
Guid Fellowship in every case
Keeps a' things richt,
A' human failings granted grace
On Burna!s nicht.
Betimes a draught free emotion's well
They draw as deep as Burns himsel'
And rant aroon twixt Heaven and Hell,
Jist as his spirit leads them.
Tam 0' Shanter gets a swing,
Again the roof and rafters ring,
And Cutty Sark can hae her fling
A' Gray Meg' Tail.
"Ye Banks and Braes 0' Bonnie Doon"
Somebody begins to croon
Somebody will harangue a 'mouse'
Anither ane address a 'louse'
Whit can I sing? someone will say,
- a shout - whit's wrang
Wi' "Scot Wha Hae?"
"My Mary's asleep
By yon Murmuring Stream"
Or "Day and nicht, my fancy's flicht,
Is ever wi' my Jean."

The Sire turns ower the Book since mair
Wi' patriarchal grace,
When in steps Holy Willie's Prayer
To try and haud its place,
Some one recites in serious strain
"Epistle unto Davy",
Anither's rakin' fore and aft
Ahint the Chicken Cave.
A rousing sang, a rantin story
In Burns's name to Scotland's glory.
The Haggis gets its due desserts,
And so does Henry Thomson,
The ale may no be reaming swats,
But everything is handsom'.
The dram goes roon, the glasses clink
Guidwill to a' mankind,
We'll tak a cup o'kindness yet
For Auld Lang Syne.
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brocht to mind,
The greatest song On earth today
Is 'Auld Lang Syne'.

For every act of God or man
There is a cause,
All life on eart's controlled
By lieture's laws.
There's naething simply happens;
We ken that Burns had got to dee,
We ask hoo happens it, that he
Still hauds oor he'rt,
While greater men forgotten lie,
We want to know the reason why
His memory's green?
Why o'er the world, they pay
This homage keen?
If rich and poor of every class,
The wise man and the casual,
The sober man, the one who takes
Twa mair than his usual
Can year by year to Burns's name,
Their pledge renew thegither,
There's some faur mair compellin' po'er
Than jist a drucken blether,
There is a reason, sound and plain;
A moment's thought, the riddle's read.
Where Wisdom and where Folly meet
On common ground, something was said.
Something was said that wakens
In the hearts of understanding men
Response; and makes them think again
On Life's true values.
Something was said that lives,-
For Burns is deed.
All human failings perished
With the flesh. So let them rest.-
His thoughts, immortal live,
While generations pass, their comfort
And their inspiration give.
His thoughts!- our thoughts,
We gather as we read, our inner best,
We treasure as our own,
Burns placed upon the printed page,
And made them known.
And so we read, and reading cry,
'So said Burns', and so think I!
One Burns alone, and yet a million more
With the selfsame thoughts in their possession,
Mad God but given all the Gift of Expression.

A life began in lowly lot
Beneath that thackit roof at Ayr,
Held little but the slender hope
To eke out an existence bare;
But Genius, aye a fickle jade
Has nae respect for rank or place,
And so, she lookit in on him,
And left him her Poetic Grace.
If clods of poverty and toil
Could mak him weary, fu' o' care,
He aye was captain of his soul,
And Guardian o' his talents rare.
Unfettered by Life's narrow wit
His soul could soar to higher sphere,
He ken't the frailties o' mankind,
Expected naething perfect here.
"A man's a man, but gently scan,
He's but a man for a' that,
We need'na, if his fit should slip,
Jist let him fe' an' a' that.
A man's a man in spite o' Hell,
Wha strives to keep a conscience clean,
And maybe takes blame to himsel'
To spare a frien'."
A tender thought, a kindly word,
For everything was God crested,
The evil mind, and empty pride,
"hypocrisy" he hated.
For sins of error or omission
He had a natural explanation,
But ill deeds, born wi' ill intent,
He gied them swift and sure demnation.
He sang his songs, the grave, the gay,
To experience's dictation,
Wi' maybe jist a tale or twa
Drawn frae Imagination.
But nearly aye the her't's true throb,
0' love and Adoration
0! Bonnie Lassies, Honest men-o-Heaven,
And Scotland's nation;
And Grief and Sorrow took their share,
And ills had to be borne;
His he'rt fu - bursting in despair
That man was made to mourn.
On different day, in different mood
The trend of life he followed,
And told the tale if bad, or good
In lines forever hallowed.

Cut off, in summer of his days
Unthinkingly - so it would seem.
Who dares to penetrate the haze,
Or vain conjecture, what might have been.
Hi work was done, -full up His day,
He went and ne'er collected pay.
Man is not measured by the years he lives,
But in his given time, how much he gives.
They buried him there in Dumfries,
And raised him monuments, the world o'er,
Auld Scotia nestles in her hert
Her love of him forevermore.
On the roll of Scotland's honour
Scotland's Worth and Scotland's Fame
There is writ in golden letters
"Robert Burns- Immortal Name."
Keep it clean and never tarnish,
While the Scottish tongue holds sway,
For-you'll never know its better,
Twixt the dawn and Judgement Day.

Dalry Burns's Club,
January 25th.1935.