It was not enough that Robert Burns taught a religion as pure and gentle and loving as that proclaimed by the Nazarene himself. Its meaning and beauty and charity were lost on those who would not see. Long ago it was written down that, “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.” If this is any test of a religious life, then few men will stand as high in the great beyond as Robert Burns. This poor poet has melted more hearts to pity and moved more souls to mercy, and inclined more lives to charity than any other poet that ever dreamed and sung. Not men and women and children alone were the objects of his bounteous love and tender heart, but he felt the pain of the bird, the hare, the mouse, and even the daisy whose roots were upturned to the biting blast. Hear him sing of the poor bird for whom he shudders at the winter’s cold: Ilka hopping bird, we helpless thing That in the merry month o’ spring Delighted me to hear thee sing, What comes o’ thee! Where wilt thou cow’r thy chilling wing And close thy ee? Few men that ever lived would stop and lament with Burns, as he shattered the poor clay home of the field mouse with his plough. No matter what he did; no matter what he said; no matter what his creed; the man that wrote these lines deserves a place with the best and purest of this world or any other that the Universe may hold. Wee, sleekit, cow’rin, tim’rous beastie! O, what a panic’s in thy breastie! Thou need na start awa sae hasty, Wi’ bickerin’ brattle; I wad be laith to rin an’ chase thee, Wi’ murd’ring prattle? In a world which still enjoys the brutal chase, where even clergymen find pleasure in inflicting pain with the inhuman gun and rod, these lines written a hundred years ago, on seeing a wounded hare limp by, should place Burns amongst the blessed of the earth: Inhuman man! curse on thy barb’rous art, And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye; May never pity sooth thee with a sight, Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart! * * * * * * Oft, as by winding Nith I musing wait. The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn, I’ll miss thee sporting o’er the dewy lawn, And curse the ruffian’s aim, and mourn thy hapless fate. This was Robert Burns,—and yet Dumfries, which held this gentle soul within its walls, and the Protestant world of a hundred years ago, looked at John Calvin piling the faggots around Servetus’ form, and knelt before him as a patron, religious saint, while they cast into outer darkness poor Robert Burns with his heart bowed down at the suffering of a wounded hare.