Letter to a Dead Poet, Robert Burns

Pen and paper on my desk before me

My muse tells me I must write,

A letter to a dead Scottish poet

Whose star still shines in the heavens bright,

The Bard o’ Ayr — hailed by all of Scotia

Your measure reached far beyond her shore,

They that could match your wit or wisdom

Could never be labelled a wimp or bore.

It’s two centuries and more since your star ascended

It’s still there, it will never die,

Yet they continue to print a controversial story

Where the truth lacks appeal, they’ll print a lie,

Critics over the years have been vocal and many

But they’re far out numbered by the admiring fan,

And McKay, the latest of your biographers

Saw aught in you but the gentle man.

You were born, it’s said, before your time

It’s a belief you belonged to a later age,

Where social freedom, truth and justice

Would have been the norm on any page,

A reckless courage and a fiery passion

Showed you man enough to accept any dare,

You confronted all with an honest frankness

A human virtue that’s still regrettably rare.

Your mortal state on earth was short

Yet within your lifespan your literary stature grew,

And with your death Scotland lost a giant

This was evident by the multitude your cortege drew,

Two centuries have elapsed since your earthly passing

But a feeling persists you and I met somewhere,

Perchance we spent a social evening together

In Poosie Nansie’s or at Mauchline Fair.