John Watson Dalby

HE was a native of the North countrie,

But left it early,—an adventurous lad;

His look I know not if severe or sad,

Shrewd surely and with even a latent glee;

And a broad deeply-furrowed brow had he.

Albeit no Scot, the accent made me glad,

Awaking love and kindly memory.

“With song and friendship we are wisely mad,”

Methought; “and this shall be a merry hour.

Of this man’s soul I hold the secret key:

Grave, silent, strong, yet shall he feel my power,

And that of the heart-linker, Sympathy.

One word shall bring the land for which he yearns,

One magic word.”—I spoke it,—it was Burns.