Written In The Cottage Where Burns Was Born

    This mortal body of a thousand days
    Now fills, O Burns, a space in thine own room,
    Where thou didst dream alone on budded bays,
    Happy and thoughtless of thy day of doom!
    My pulse is warm with thine old barley-bree,
    My head is light with pledging a great soul,
    My eyes are wandering, and I cannot see,
    Fancy is dead and drunken at its goal;
    Yet can I stamp my foot upon thy floor,
    Yet can I ope thy window-sash to find
    The meadow thou hast tramped o'er and o'er,
    Yet can I think of thee till thought is blind,
    Yet can I gulp a bumper to thy name,
    O smile among the shades, for this is fame!