blinding tears of pity and regret; but we cannot remain insensible to that genius which has sung, as poet never did before, the joys and the sorrows of the poor man's lot, and given a voice at the same time to noble sentiments which make the poor proud of him as their poet-for he is emphatically the poet of the poor-(cheers) -but by the power of his genius he binds together the rich and the poor in one common sentiment, so widely and practically acknowledged to-night,

"The rank is but the guinea stamp,

the Tweed-a literature which, so far as it has
been embodied in song, is as varied as every
mood of the human soul keenly alive to the
beauties of nature, and strung to every emotion
of joy or of sorrow in the heart of man-a
literature which is at once the burning purpose
of the patriot, the war song of freedom, or the
voice of artless love, or the low key-note of a
mother's affection, as, with a simple song, she
hushes the babe to sleep-the fact, we say,
that we have such a distinct peasant literature
is an honour to which few countries besides our

own can lay claim, and, but for the genius of
Burns, she would have had but few claims to
such an honour. (Cheers.) There are distinct
national causes to which we can trace such a
literature as this. There is first of all the deep
interest which our reforming forefathers took
in the education of the people, the practical re-
sult of which was the establishment of our par-
ish schools. No man ever took a deeper interest
in the education of his children than did that
most worthy man William Burns, the father of
the poet. He drudged hard and stinted him-
self of ease and comfort, that he might give his
children the blessing of a good education.
Then, again, there is a quiet thoughtfulness, a
shrewd inquisitiveness, a native enthusiasm, a
dogged perseverance, or, if you will, a "dour-
ness," in the Scotch character, that nothing will
overcome. We have noted examples of this in
the case of Hugh Miller and David Livingston
(cheers)—and Burns was not a whit behind
them in all these qualities. (Renewed cheers.)
He tells us that he had a sturdy stubborn
something" about him, and he reached the lofty
height to which, when a boy, he aspired on the

The man's the gowd for a' that."(Loud cheers.) His best effusions were written when "he walked in glory and in joy behind his plough upon the mountain side." The toiling thousands of this and other lands have reason to be proud of that genius which has beautified the rough byways of labour. And so they are. They have ever looked upon his genius with grateful admiration. They stood true to him when he was cast off by those from whom better things might have been expected. (Cheers.) If we are to speak of faults at all to-night, and if there were great genius and great faults on the one side, were there not others to blame? I ask you to look back upon the social character of those times, so far as drinking was concerned, when he came from the "plough stilts" to take up his abode with a friend from Mauchline, in an apartment in Baxter's Closs in the Lawnmarket, rented at three shillings per week. The drinking habits of Edinburgh killed poor Fergusson; and was there no danger for Burns, whose conversational powers were even a greater wonder than his poetical genius? (Cheers.) Where were Scot-harvest field. land's nobility and gentry,-where was her middle class,-when the life of her greatest poct became a sad tragedy? There are few things so tragic as the last days of Scotland's greatest poet. Scotland received a gift which she may never receive again; and if there is to be blame, let a large portion of it rest where it ought to lie, at the door of Scotland's intemperance at that time, which made it a terrible risk for a man to be endowed with genius such as Burns possessed. Notwith- Again, is there not even something in the exstanding all his faults, we owe much to him.ternal features of our country that awakens a (Great cheering.) The fact that we have a distinct peasant literature that has sprung from the lowly cottage homes of our country, which has been nurtured amid the many-sided trials of the poor man's lot, which has gladdened his fireside, and made him proud of his land—a literature which has given a name and a glory to every stream, and glen, and river, and ancient ruin, and old feudal keep, and lofty mountain, from the far north to the banks of

"E'en then a wish,-I mind its power,-
A wish that to my latest hour

Shall strongly heave my breast,-
That I for puir auld Scotland's sake
Some usefu' plan or beuk could make,
Or sing a sang at least.

The rough burr-thistle, spreading wide
Among the bearded bear,

I turned the weeder-clips aside,

And spared the symbol dear."-(Loud cheers.)

strong national feeling of patriotism, evokes
the spirit of a peasant literature, and fires the
genius of its "native wood-notes wild?" Who
can follow the silvery Tweed, or, pass up the
soft green vale of Yarrow, or track the Teviot,
the Till, the Nith, or the Clyde, or gaze upon
the glorious panorama of Highland lakes, and
glens, and mountains, such as Loch Linnhe, and
Glencoe, and the everlasting giants of Argyle,
without saying to himself, "there is no won-

der our forefathers fought for such a land as father and priest. Step into that little farmthis?"

"Oh, Caledonia! stern and wild,

Meet nurse for a poetic child."

house in the neighbourhood of Ayr, and, in the long wintry nights, you see a delighted circle gathered around the fireside; and an elderlylooking man-not old, but old-like from many harassing cares, and from severe toil, that racks. the joints, and makes the hair prematurely grey

Burns was most favourably situated in this respect. He grew up amid the beauties of nature on the banks of the Ayr and the Doon-and no-is instructing his children, amongst whom one ever loved nature more intensely, or could describe it in its varied phases better than he did. Take for example his description of a stream,

He loved nature, however, chiefly in connection with the interests of living things. Many passages in proof of this will at once occur to your own minds. And then, what country teems with more soul-stirring associations than our own dear Scotland? The history of our country—whether we turn to its struggles for civil or religious freedom-contains all those stirring elements which cannot fail to kindle into proud enthusiasm the peasant in his moorland home, as well as the dweller in lordly hall. (Cheers.) There were materials lying profusely at hand in the records of our national history to fire the soul of the peasant bard, and pour the burning tide of rapture into his song. Burns felt this, and hence his patriotism, his love of freedom and independence, which burst forth in such strains as "Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled," and his "words that breathe" in the prayer for Scotland

"Oh, Scotia! my dear, my native soil,

For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent!
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil
Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet con-

tent!

And, oh! may Heaven their simple lives prevent From luxury's contagion, weak and vile!

are his two sons, Gilbert and Robert. He reads from some useful book, or converses with his two boys "as if they had been men." But hark! there are rapid footsteps outside, and then a knock at the door. All eyes are turned to it, and a young man, frank, joyous, and warm-hearted, enters, to the great delight of all. This is Murdoch the schoolmaster. He brings books with him; and what, think you, can he read in such a dwelling? Is it the "Farmer's Almanack" many weeks old? No! but the noblest effusions of some of our best poets, or the record of some of the most stirring events in Scottish history. The evening would be closed by family worship, so beautifully described in "The Cottar's Saturday Night:"

"The cheerful supper done, wi' serious face,

They round the ingle form a circle wide:
The sire turns o'er, with patriarchal grace,
The big ha' Bible, ance his father's pride;
His bonnet reverently is laid aside,
His lyart haffets, wearing thin and bare;

Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide,
He wales a portion with judicious care;
And 'Let us worship God!" he says with solemn air."

Whatever influence these causes might have in developing the poetical genius of Burns, or in giving rise to our peasant literature, we can never forget that he was born a poet, that he was a poet by nature, that the gift which was in him was not the result of art, but a gift of nature, as much as is the song of the linnet or the lark. He poured the rich melody of his genius over broad Scotland, because, like the birds, he could not but sing. There was in him, by nature, what could not fail to attract and delight, and make him a power amongst the people. In that humble homestead in which he was reared, conjugal love and all the gentle ministrations of the home affections brightened the stern face of poverty, strengthened every noble sentiment, and cheered the drudgery of (Cheers.) In addition to all this, there are the ceaseless toil. No man knew better, or could hallowed home influences of humble cottage better describe, the home influences of humble life in Scotland, which, whatever these may be cottage life. He knew the straits, the privations, now, were, generally speaking, in former times the joys and the sorrows, the independence and most favourable to the development of a pea- the worth, the manly virtues as well as the sant literature, and could not fail to beget a weaknesses, that were to be found in the cotnoble spirit of independence and self-reliance. tage homes of Scotland; and nowhere does his No cottage home in broad Scotland enjoyed marvellous genius appear to greater advantage, these hallowed influences more than the one-nowhere does it shine with greater brightness over which William Burns was the presiding and purity, than when he starts into life those

That, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, A virtuous populace may rise the while

To stand a wall of fire around our much-lov'd isle!"

world kin, which appeals to the universal heart the name of Burns would have perished. It would have been dragged down into oblivion by the baser part of his life and writings. As time passes, the impure sediment will sink, but the pure stream of genius itself flowing above that, and looked at apart from that, will ever be regarded with grateful admiration, and will remain a "thing of beauty and joy for ever." It is well that the Scottish people, generally speaking, have had the good sense and the charity to look at their national poet in this

diamond, notwithstanding the baser materials in which it is embedded, and in which it shines. I am anxious not to exaggerate in any way on an occasion when there is so much danger of this; and whilst we express our admiration of the genius of our national poet, let us feel as if we were invited by the hard himself to stand by his grave and read the epitaph which he composed for himself—

"Is there a whim-inspired fool,

Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule,
Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool?
Let him draw near;

And owre this grassy heap sing dool,
And drap a tear.

scenes and feelings which appeal to the common | his writings the stamp of imperishable geniusheart of man. This is the secret of his power, that sympathetic something which makes the especially with the mass of the people. They love him notwithstanding all his failings. They look upon him as a brother, because the best effusions of his genius have enshrined in the bosom of living sympathy their own experiences, and much which, in point of endurance at least, was peculiar to themselves. What poet lives so familiarly amongst the people as he does? They fondly speak of him as their own Robin, or Rabbie, when they would characterize the more pathetic effusions of his muse; whilst they speak of him as Rab, or "an unco Rab," in reference to his more wild and reck-discriminating way. The diamond is still the less fancies. (Laughter.) Nowhere is his genius more appreciated than at the fireside of labouring men, and that very class of toiling men, of whom Scotland may feel justly proud, "Who make her lov'd at home, rever'd abroad." (Cheers.) I well remember the thrilling effect produced in a humble home circle, when but a mere child, when some of his noblest effusions were repeated by a pious father, who could do this as but few could do it. (Hear, hear.) The homely jingle was new and attractive to the ear, but the scenes, the sentiments, and the incidents, could move to tears, or shake the sides with laughter. You have but to witness the effect produced in any circle, or in any great promiscuous gathering of the people, by the singing of one of Burns' songs, in which manly independence, or the love of freedom, or patriotism, or conjugal affection, or the purity of virgin love, are set forth, to be convinced of the power and vitality of his genius, and of the hold which he has upon the hearts of men. (Cheers.) The popularity of his best lyrics does not arise from the music to which they have been wed, as is the case with many songs, but from the inherent power of genius itself. Take away from his writings all that is objectionable, all that in his last hours he would have blotted out, and which he would have consigned, could bitter regret have done it, to the deepest shades of oblivion-take away all which the best of men and his firmest admirers regret should ever have been written, and after this is done, there will still remain much, very much, that will endear his genius to the common heart of man, and which that heart, as long as it beats in unison with noble sentiment, will not willingly let die. (Cheers.) I need not say that I am speaking of the genius of Burns in its brightest and purest moods; and, though we have but mere fitful snatches of these, surely there is enough to call forth our grateful admiration and our deepest pity. Had this not been the case-had there not been in

The poor inhabitant below
Was quick to learn, and wise to know,
And keenly felt the friendly glow,
And softer flame;

But thoughtless follies laid him low,
And stained his name."

In the words of an eloquent living writer—
"Alas! his sun shone as through a tropical
tornado, and the pale shadow of death eclipsed
it at noon. Shrouded in such baleful vapour,
the genius of Burns was never seen in clear
azure splendour enlightening the world; but
some beams from it did, by fits, pierce through,
and it tinted those clouds with rainbow and
orient colours, into a glory and stern grandeur,
which men silently gaze on with wonder and
tears." Notwithstanding all these drawbacks,
his genius has wreathed around the brow of old
Scotland a garland of poetic beauty imperish-
able as her own heathery glens, and sweet and
simple as her own "Mountain Daisy," to which
that genius has given a deathless fame. (Pro-
longed cheers.)

[The speaker was frequently interrupted by the extraordinary enthusiasm of the audience, and when he resumed his seat was greeted with a storm of applause.]

A choice selection of Burns' songs, sung by Mr. John Johnstone, Mr. William Kerr, Miss Acquroff, and a choir of the Edinburgh Abstainers' Musical Association, filled up the intervals between the differ

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We are all poets in some degree. The child who thinks it can climb the rainbow, who believes that the moon can be clipped into stars, or who looks into its pillow, and sees wondrous things there, is a poet; every child who reads the Arabian Nights, who believes in Aladdin's lamp, or who goes to a pantomime, is a poet. And in later years we are all poets-There is a selfish sectarian patriotism, a feeling love makes us poets. (Applause.) Every manlover is a poet; every gentle sweetheart is a poet; every mother bending over her suckling child is a poet; every son comforting his old mother is a poet. There is a poetry in all our lives, if we can feel it; and if we cannot, no Burns or any one can teach us it. But we want