themsells
To nature true, as its ain law;
For minstrel nane on earth excels
In this the Bard of Alloa.

Fresh as the moorland's early dews,
And glowing as the woodland rose,
Of hearts, his thought gives forth the hues,
As richly bright as heaven's ain bow 's--
With me, my native land, rejoice,
And let the bard thy bosom thaw,
As Spring's sweet breathing comes the voice
Of him wha sings frae Alloa.

Then rest thee, Crawford, on the lawn,
And thus, if song thy soul shall sway,
I'll bless thee, while thy toil-worn han'
Pu's for itsel' a flower or twa;
'Tis idle--gowd-gear hearts will say--
But maist for whilk will tear-drops fa'
When death has come, and flowers shall bloom
Aboon the Bard of Alloa?

Oh, sing, ye bards, to nature true,
And glory shall your brows adorn,
And else than this, by none or few,
The poet's wreath will long be worn.
Cauld fa' the notes o' him wha sings
O' scenes whilk man yet never saw--
Pour then, frae nature's ain heart-strings,
Your strains like him of Alloa.

Possess maun he a poet's heart,
And he maun ha'e a poet's mind
Wha deftly plays the generous part
That warms the cauld, and charms the kind.
Nor scorn, ye frozen anes, the powers
Whilk hinder other hearts to fa'
Into a sordid sink--like yours--
But bless the Bard of Alloa.

Ah! little ye may trow or ken
The mony cares, and waes, and toils,
'Mang hearts and hames o' lowly men
Whilk nought save poetry beguiles;
It lifts fu' mony fortune 'boon,
When she begins her face to thraw,
That ne'er sae sweet a harp could tune
As his that sounds frae Alloa.

And as for me, ere this I'd lain
Where mark'd my head a mossy stane,
Had it not made the joys my ain
When a' life's other joys were gane.
If 'mang the mountains lone and gray,
Unknown, my early joys I sung,
When cares and woes wad life belay,
How could my harp away be flung?

The dearest power in life below,
Is life's ain native power of song,
As he alone can truly know,
To whom it truly may belong.
Lighten'd hath it fu' mony a step,
And lessen'd hath it mony a hill,
And lighted up the rays o' hope,
Ay, and it up shall light them still.

Lo! avarice cauld can gowd secure,