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Rh Pilgrims whose wandering feet have pressed
 * The Switzer’s snow, the Arab’s sand,

Or trod the piled leaves of the West,
 * My own green forest-land.

All ask the cottage of his birth,
 * Gaze on the scenes he loved and sung,

And gather feelings not of earth
 * His fields and streams among.

They linger by the Doon’s low trees,
 * And pastoral Nith, and wooded Ayr,

And round thy sepulchres, Dumfries!
 * The poet’s tomb is there.

But what to them the sculptor’s art,
 * His funeral columns, wreaths and urns?

Wear they not graven on the heart
 * The name of Robert Burns?