"To make a happy fireside clime To weans and wife, That's the true pathos, and sublime, Of human life." FRIENDSHIP. He was the poet of friendship: "Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And never brought to min'? Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And days o' auld lang syne?" Wherever those who speak the English language assemble--wherever the Anglo-Saxon people meet with clasp and smile--these words are given to the air. SCOTCH DRINK. The poet of good Scotch drink, of merry meetings, of the cup that cheers, author of the best drinking song in the world: "O, Willie brew'd a peck o' maut, And Rob and Allen came to see; Three blyther hearts, that lee-lang night, Ye wadna find in Christendie. Chorus. "We are na fou, we're no that fou, But just a drappie in our ee; The cock may craw, the day may daw, And aye we'll taste the barley bree. "Here are we met, three merry boys, Three merry boys, I trow, are we; And monie a night we've merry been, And monie mae we hope to be! We are na fou, &c. "It is the moon, I ken her horn, That's blinkin in the lift say hie; She shines sae bright to wyle us hame, But by my sooth she'll wait a wee! We are na fou, &c. "Wha first shall rise to gang awa, A cuckold, coward loun is he! Wha last beside his chair shall fa', He is the King amang us three! We are na fou, &c." POETS BORN, NOT MADE. He did not think the poet could be made--that colleges could furnish feeling, capacity, genius. He gave his opinion of these manufactured minstrels: "A set o' dull, conceited hashes, Confuse their brains in college classes! They gang in stirks, and come out asses, Plain truth to speak; An' syne they think to climb Parnassus By dint o' Greek!" "Gie me ane spark o' Nature's fire, That's a' the learning I desire; Then tho' I drudge thro' dub an' mire At pleugh or cart, My Muse, though hamely in attire, May touch the heart." BURNS, THE ARTIST. He was an artist--a painter of pictures. This of the brook: "Whyles owre a linn the burnie plays, As thro' the glen it wimpl't; Whyles round a rocky scaur it strays; Whyles in a wiel it dimpl't; Whyles glitter's to the nightly rays, Wi' bickering, dancing dazzle; Whyles cookit underneath the braes, Below the spreading hazel, Unseen that night." Or this from Tam O'Shanter: "But pleasures are like poppies spread, You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed, Or, like the snow falls in the river, A moment white--then melts forever; Or, like the borealis race, That flit ere you can point their place; Or, like the rainbow's lovely form, Evanishing amid the storm." This: