Large Book, with heavy covers worn and old, Bearing clear proof of usage and of years, Thine edges yellow with their faded gold, Thy leaves with fingers stained — perchance with tears;
How oft thy venerable page has felt The hardened hands of honorable toil! How oft thy simple song had power to melt The hearts of the rude tillers of the soil!
How oft has fancy borne them back to see The Scottish peasant at his work, and thou Hast made them feel the grandeur of the free And independent follower of the plough!
What careth he that his proud name hath peal'd From shore to shore since his new race began, In humble cot and “histie stibble field” Who doth “preserve the dignity of man”?
With reverent hands I lay aside the tome, And to my longing heart content returns, And in the stranger's house I am at home, For thou dost make us brothers, Robert Burns.
And thou, old Book, go down from sire to son; Repeat the pathos of the poet's life; Sing the sweet song of him who fought and won The outward struggle and the inward strife.
Go down, grand Book, from hoary sire to son; Keep by the Book of books thy wonted place; Tell what a son of man hath felt and done, And make of us and ours a noble race,—
A race to scorn the sordid greed of gold, To spurn the spurious and contemn the base, Despise the shams that may be bought and sold,— A race of brothers and of men,— a race
To usher in the long-expected time Good men have sought and prophets have foretold, When this bright world shall be the happy clime Of brotherhood and peace, when men shall mould
Their lives like His who walked in Palestine; The truly human manhood thou dost show, Leading them upward to the pure divine Nature of God made manifest below.
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