Burns

When January twenty-fifth retnrns We think and dream of Kobert Burns. A rhyming spell comes sweetly o'er us All bis songs seem to encoré us, His poetry is aye a treasnre Toliftuson the inns of pleasure, Witli all his faults lie aye was kindly And sung his fatber's home dirlnely, When days aredark. sad and dreary Bis songs make 1IÍ& blithe apd cheery, "We take his golden gift with joy Forgive him for Ibc earth'a alloy." While BWeot birds siDg and roses bloom The world will sing 01 bonnie Doon, He said his pulstt's madning play Had sent him pleasure's 4evious way, Repenting oft when he was wrong In praise in poetry and son?, Sayíng hafl religión muid divine Pardon a muse so mean as mine, Did enemies whn saw his failíngs Sing assweet lo sad bewailings, Read his "t'otter's Saturday Night" To make your homeTs as pure and brlght, Where the saint, father and husband preys That all may meet in futare d&vs. All ransomed on the golden shore Where sin andsorrow come no more. Was all the Presbytery ot Ayr As uplifting as his fathers prayer? In his cbiUlhood's home 80 lowly That marie Whittier's Bible holy. Forg ve hls faults and Ring his lays Iu every land sweet songs of praise.