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Rh And Burns—though brief the race he ran,
 * Though rough and dark the path he trod,

Lived—died—in form and soul a Man,
 * The image of his God.

Through care, and pain, and want, and woe,
 * With wounds that only death could heal,

Tortures—the poor alone can know,
 * The proud alone can feel;

He kept his honesty and truth,
 * His independent tongue and pen,

And moved, in manhood as in youth,
 * Pride of his fellow-men.

Strong sense, deep feeling, passions strong,
 * A hate of tyrant and of knave,

A love of right, a scorn of wrong,
 * Of coward and of slave;

A kind, true heart, a spirit high,
 * That could not fear and would not bow,

Were written in his manly eye
 * And on his manly brow.

Praise to the bard! his words are driven,
 * Like flower-seeds by the far winds sown,

Where’er, beneath the sky of heaven,
 * The birds of fame have flown.