As a man, Burns was far from perfect. His passions were strong and he never learned to control them, and in consequence he had reason to repent bitterly many a rash act. Yet he was brave and honest; he had a righteous hatred of hypocrisy; as the champion of the humble, he claimed for the poorest the full privileges of sturdy manhood; he cared heartily for his fellowmen and had a place in his affections even for the field-mouse and the daisy. Because his verse beats with the passions of his fiery and sympathetic nature, the world loves him as it loves few other poets. Among the best known of his productions are _The Cotter's Saturday Night_, _Tam o' Shanter_, _Address to the Unco Guid_, _To a Mouse_, and _To a Mountain Daisy_. In speaking of his songs, one might mention first, _Scots Wha Hae_,--composed in the midst of tempests, while the poet was riding over a wild Galloway moor,--and next, _Highland Mary_ and _A Man's a Man for a' That_; but there is no need of enumerating the songs of Burns. As Emerson has said, "The wind whispers them, the birds whistle them, the corn, barley, and bulrushes hoarsely rustle them. . . . They are the property and the solace of mankind." THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT[*] My loved, my honored, much respected friend![1] No mercenary bard his homage pays; With honest pride I scorn each selfish end, My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise: To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, 5 The lowly train in life's sequestered scene; The native feelings strong, the guileless ways; What Aikin in a cottage would have been; Ah! tho' his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween![2] November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh;[3] 10 The short'ning winter-day is near a close; The miry beasts retreating frae[4] the pleugh;[5] The black'ning trains o' craws[6] to their repose: The toil-worn Cotter frae his labor goes, This night his weekly moil[7] is at an end, 15 Collects his spades, his mattocks,[8] and his hoes, Hoping the morn[9] in ease and rest to spend, And weary, o'er the moor, his course does homeward[10] bend. At length his lonely cot appears in view, Beneath the shelter of an aged tree; 20 Th' expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher[11] through To meet their dad, wi' flichterin'[12] noise and glee. His wee bit ingle,[13] blinkin bonilie,[14] His clean hearth-stane,[15] his thrifty wine's smile, The lisping infant prattling on his knee, 25 Does a' his weary kiaugh and care beguile,[16] And makes him quite forget his labor and his toil,