Echo From a Dead Poet
"I'll be more respected a hundred years
after I'm dead than I am at present."--R.B., 1796.
"MY fame is sure; when I am dead
A century," the Poet said,
"They'll heap the honours on my head
They grudge me noo";
To-day the hundred years have sped
That prove it true.
Whiles as the featherd ages flee,
Time sets the sand-glass on his knee,
An' ilka name baith great an' wee
Shak's thro' his seive;
Syne sadly wags his pow to see
The few that live.
An' still the quickest o' the lot
Is his wha made the lovely cot
A shrine, whaur ilka reverent Scot
Our mither's psalms we may forgot,
But never Burns.
This nicht, auld Scotland, dry your tears,
An' let nae sough o' grief come near's;
We'll speak o' Rab 's gin he could hear's;
Life's but a fivver,
And he's been healed this hundred years
To live for ever.
(Charles Murray, 1864-1941)
Note: National pride is but one more false religion to confuse. We are either citizens of heaven or we are lost at sea. I noted here that the poet considered memories of Scottish home, hearth and culture to hold a more sanctified place than a mother's psalms and Godly instruction. How sad but how true. The middle ground is an admixture of Christ and flag, (or perhaps political party). Also sad.
See our earlier post "The Cotter's Saturday Night", one of Burns' most redeeming.
Look also at Hebrews 11:
13These all died in faith, not having received the promises, but having seen them afar off, and were persuaded of them, and embraced them, and confessed that they were strangers and pilgrims on the earth.
14For they that say such things declare plainly that they seek a country.
15And truly, if they had been mindful of that country from whence they came out, they might have had opportunity to have returned.
16But now they desire a better country, that is, an heavenly: wherefore God is not ashamed to be called their God: for he hath prepared for them a city.
Also Philippians 3: 19-21.