all the while waved its broad leaves in sym- | skies-and this night, the Scottish soldier, restpathy with the kindred trees of other lands. ing from war, shall sing the songs of his counYes! if he was a lover of his own country, it try's bard by the bivouac fire on the banks of was no blind love. He knew our Scottish land, the Ganges. Then why need I attempt to and loved it for its own sake. Think of the address you when the thousand voices, now stories he has preserved in song, which would treating of the same theme, can but faintly apotherwise have been forgotten; think of that proximate to what Scotland means to say on most magnificent war ode, "Scots, wha hae;" this the hundredth anniversary of the poet's think of the affectionate way in which he re- birth? It seems to me that it is not of Burns fers to what others might call weeds-to the alone, nor of his poetry, that she would speak, "mountain daisy," the sweet hawthorn, the but that she takes this man and the producthistle, and the harebell; think of his feelings tions of his wondrous genius as a type of her towards the lower creatures, to the "cowering nationality-a nationality which even now grows beastie," to the " chittering bird," to the dim in the hearts of the people, and in another "wounded hare," to the "old mare;" in a hundred years may be fed entirely by the songs word, how on every living thing he bestowed of Burns. I shall leave it to others then, to enter his affection and his sympathy. Still more did upon a critical estimate of the poet's works; I he love his fellow-men. What in very truth shall leave it to those who feel the subject killed Burns was, that he could not get love agreeable to them to point the finger at the to respond to his own. There was deep loy- follies of his life, and with your permission alty in him. Veneration for higher worth and shall say a few words upon two prominent modest self-respect sound from every line of qualities which the poetry of Burns has cher"A man's a man for a' that." (Applause.) ished in the hearts of Scotchmen-I mean inThe learned Professor proceeded, in glowing dependence of character and love of country. language, to allude to some of the sorrow- But first, as to the time and circumstances ful traits in the life of Burns, in which re- when Burns appeared. When, as we have just spect he paralleled him to Scott, Southey, heard sung, the first blast "blew handsel in on Moore, Byron, Keats, Shelley, Chatterton, and Robin," [the rain and wind at this moment other poets. From the lives of all these men drove with great violence against the windows there was a deep lesson to be learned; and an of the hall, when the speaker said,] and the obligation lay on all to profit by the story of elements to-night seem also to be keeping the those, who learned in suffering what they centenary; let them lash on, it is the best iltaught in song. And as we cannot make lustration we can have of the wild, dark, and amends to the dead, let us be careful not to stormy career of the poet! When Burns was treat our living poets as our forefathers treated born, Scotland, although she had been united Burns, who when he asked for bread got a to England for half-a-century, was as much a stone; and not even that till dead. The Chair- separate nation, with a distinct language, difman concluded by a comparative sketch of the ferent laws, and peculiar customs, as if the careers of Burns and James Watt, and the re- articles of Union had never been penned. The spective influence which each had, as types of blood was scarce dry on the field of Culloden. the poetical peasant and the scientific artisan, In the Lowlands the feeling against the Union exercised on his own and the present genera- had mellowed down into a keen attachment to tion. native institutions. The Scottish language was Mr. GORRIE then addressed the meeting, universally spoken in the hall of the noble, and said I confess that, in rising to say a few from the pulpit, from the bench, as well as in words on this festival night, I feel as if I were the cottage. But by the time Burns arrived trying to speak where a thousand voices already at manhood the influence of England had alfilled the air. You are all quiet and attentive; ready wrought great changes, and every one but a secret sympathy tells me, as it must tell felt it was destined to effect more. The peayou, that the eulogy of Scotland's bard is at santry were still intensely Scottish; and it was this moment ringing round the world. It is thus that Burns' poems and songs were renot only the tongue of auld Scotland that strug-ceived by them with so much enthusiasm. gles to utter thoughts too deep for utterance; They expressed the feelings of the nation in but pass with me in imagination to what quar- the common language. He gave a voice to the ter of the globe you choose, and there you shall patriotism, the humour, ay, and the deep relifind the sons and daughters of the old country gious sentiment of the people. He clothed in engaged in enthusiastic celebrations. The deathless song their loves, their sports, their sound of revelry is rising from Canadian cities customs. He shed a richer glory over the ro-the memory of Burns is being fondly re-mantic scenery of their native land, and, above called beneath the soft beauty of Australian all, in every line there breathed a spirit of ster

ling independence which formed a striking con- | have been deep in all the bloodless contentions trast to the prevailing characteristic of the higher ranks of the period. Scotland needed a poet to embody in song the life of the nation before a foreign element had weakened and changed its conditions. And, obedient to the great law, when the time was ripe for the man, the man appeared, ripe, ready, and specially gifted for the work. He sprang from that class of the people which best suited his mission, a class which has given to Scotland some of her greatest ornaments, but which now, under the influence of what is called "progress," is being blotted from the old country. While from association and sympathy he was a peasant, he had received the education of a farmer's son. The one fitted him to be the poet of the people, the other to wed their aspirations and emotions to immortal verse. In very early youth he cherished the idea which he was fated to work out.

"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."

Let us take, then, the quality of independence of character which breathes through Burns' poetry, and in teaching which he has deserved well of posterity. Without Burns, I believe, we would not have had so much manly independence among all classes in Scotland. Moralists might write essays innumerable, but they would struggle in vain to teach by any dissertations, however eloquent, what Burns gives in a couple of lines, with a power which brands the sentiment upon the brain for ever. He strove to "preserve the dignity of man with soul erect." Burns was not capable of understanding that spirit of humility which rejoices in cringing to some fellow-mortal merely because he is rich, and who probably has little claim to respect. He held the true Christian theory of the dignity and brotherhood of man, and longed for the time when "man to man the world o'er, should brithers be for a' that." The feeling of independence which he cherished and displayed was something entirely different from any mere envy of rauk. To those in high station who were worthy of his regards, he paid them with a poet's heartiness; but he had no respect for mere rank and mere station when dissevered from worth. Here also his position in society stood him in good stead. The class of whom his father was one were the salt of Scotland. They had stood by Wallace in the war of independence. They were ever ready at the call of their country-they were in the thick of the Reformation-they were in the thick of the Covenanters' struggle, and they

which have since agitated Scotland. They
were actuated by a high sense of duty, permit-
ting none to come betwixt them and their
privileges. Whether it was an English soldier,
a Romish priest, a persecuting Prelatist, or an
interfering landlord, they each and all received
the same stern rebuff. If they were invited to
stretch their consciences in sacred matters at
the bidding of their superiors, they knew how
to resist it with scorn-if in civil matters, they
were ready to take the consequences of refusal.
They were scrupulously jealous of their inde-
pendence in another particular-had
you offered
to place one of those genuine old world Scotch-
men upon the poor-roll, it would have broken
his heart! He knew how to labour hard and
live sparingly, but he knew not how to depend
upon others for his daily bread. Mr. Gorrie
then took up the second subject with which he
proposed to deal, namely, that the poetry of
Burns had done much for Scottish nationality.
The poet was born amid scenes peculiarly fitted
to fire the patriotic ardour of his soul. Every
inch of the soil which he trode in youth was
classic ground. Ayrshire was the land of
Wallace before it was the land of Burns. It
was the land, too, of the Covenanters; and the
remembrance of the liberty, civil and religious,
which had been thus achieved, acted powerfully
upon the whole population of the west.
land of Wallace! and

"At Wallace' name what Scottish blood
But boils up in a spring-tide flood!
Oft have our fearless fathers strode
By Wallace' side

Still pressing onward, red-wat shod,
Or glorious died!"

The

The blood of the poet, like that of every true Scotchman, fired at the very name of the Great Patriot. He tells us how he used to visit and muse amid the scenes of Wallace's dangers and triumphs, and how he longed to sing a song worthy of the man and his work. I would the practice were as universal now as then, of recalling the life and labours of one who preserved Scotland from the yoke of bondage, and thus made her what she is in her freedom, her prosperity, and her great aspirations. I would it were more common than it is, to tell the children of the land-they who must in future bear up the country's banner-the legends of that elder time when their fathers struck for freedom. But I presume they are now taught the "philosophy of sport"-taught the nature and attributes of a soap-bubble, or why a fly can walk along the ceiling. It is good to do the one, but not to leave the other undone. It is good to teach them the works of Greek and Latin poets, but teach them first

Robert Burns lives in the heart of the Scottish nation, and there will he be enshrined while the plough turns up the soil of auld Scotland, or the sound of the hammer is heard in her cities and her hamlets. (Applause.)

However humble and lowly the household in which Burns grew up to manhood, it was not without its advantages. William Burns, his father, was one of those of whom Scotland may justly be proud—a model of humble intelligence and worth-a man ready to make all sacrifices for the education of his children-a man of whom Mr. Murdoch, the poet's teacher, said, "I have always considered William Burns as by far the best of the human race that I ever had the pleasure of being acquainted with, and many a worthy character I have known." An affectionate husband, a kind father, repressing every evil and encouraging every heaven

at their simple evening devotions, so exquisitely pictured in the "Cottar's Saturday Night," and he lives in our veneration and love for ever. (Great applause.)

parents. He afterwards removed to Ayrshire, | world's care. where he took a lease of some seven acres of land near the bridge of Doon, and commenced business as a nurseryman. On this piece of ground, with his own hands, he built a clay cottage, and in December 1757, brought to it Agnes Brown, his young bride, the daughter of a small farmer in Carrick. It was in this humble cottage, exactly one hundred years ago this day, that Robert Burns, their eldest child, was born, and it is this event which we are now met to commemorate, an event which is this day being celebrated not only in every city, town, and village, and hamlet throughout Scotland, ay, and England too, but in every land, and in every clime where the Anglo-Saxon language is spoken, or an adventurous spirit has carried one of Scotia's sons. (Great Applause.) And well may the whole Scottish nation celebrate the birth of Burns, for Scot-ward influence, we behold him and his family land herself is this day exalted and glorified in the fact that, sprung from the bosom of her people, and living and dying among the children of toil, she has produced a poet whose genius has pictured, in undying words, all that is lovely and loveable in her daughters, all that is manly and independent, noble and devout, in the character of her sons. (Hear, hear.) In Robert Burns we recognise the true representative, so to speak, of his countrymen. His genius searched into the hearts of those among whom his life was spent, and gave utterance to the nobilities he found there. The simple piety which erected a family altar in every household, speaks to us in the "Cottar's Saturday Night" -the pure unselfish love of our lads is expressed in such sweet strains as "My Nannie O," and "Of a' the airts the wind can blaw," rising into the sublimity of chastened tenderness and love in the "Ode to Mary in Heaven"-our slow to give, but fast to hold, friendship in "Should auld acquaintance be forgot"-our pride even in our honest poverty, our independence, manly but not boorish, the peasant casting no glance of envy on the peer, is pictured in "A man's a man for a' that"-while Scottish patriotism as it existed in the time of Burns, as we are proud to know it exists among us still, thrills through our every vein, as if we heard the trumpet's call to battle for freedom and our hearths, in "Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled." (Great cheering.) Robert Burns is truly, par excellence, the poet of the Scottish people. His songs are with us in our every mood, are associated with us in our every memory, that takes us back to the days of langsyne, to the days of our boyhood and our youth, to friends who have passed away, and to joys that return no more. His songs lighten the toil of labour, and bring balm to the spirit oppressed with the

Robert Burns was barely thirteen when he commenced a life of hard toil, and with a stout, willing heart did he put forth his young strength to help his loved father on the little farm he had taken, for the sake of keeping his family together under his own roof tree. At fifteen he was chief labourer on the farm, and relieved his father from holding the plough; and in this capacity he remained until his father's death in the spring of 1784, when being then in his twenty-sixth year, he and his brother Gilbert took the farm of Mossgiel, in the parish of Mauchline, whither the whole Burns family removed. The farm-house of Mossgiel, which still exists pretty much as when it was inhabited by Burns, is a humble dwelling, mainly two rooms, a kitchen and a parlour, with a kind of garretcloset entering by a trap stair from the lobby. This little garret was the chamber of the poet and his brother. It had a small window of four panes in the sloping roof, and under the window a small deal table. Here he transcribed the verses he had composed in the field, his youngest sister often slipping up to search the drawer for them. Burns was not a farmer in the modern sense of the word, but the douce guidman who held his own plough. plough was drawn by four horses, driven by a help or gaudsman, as he was called. His gaudsman at Mossgiel was one John Blane, who related, in illustration of the poet's humane disposition, that one day the plough having turned up a field-mouse, he chased and was on the point of killing it, when he was called back by the tender-hearted Bard, who not only saved its life then, but immortalized it by an ode to

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