A Robert Burns Poem

YE sons of old Killie, assembled by Willie,
To follow the noble vocation;
Your thrifty old mother has scarce such another
To sit in that honoured station.
I’ve little to say, but only to pray,
As praying’s the ton of your fashion;
A prayer from thee Muse you well may excuse
’Tis seldom her favourite passion.

Ye powers who preside o’er the wind, and the tide,
Who markèd each element’s border;
Who formed this frame with beneficent aim,
Whose sovereign statute is order: -
Within this dear mansion, may wayward Contention
Or witherèd Envy ne’er enter;
May secrecy round be the mystical bound,
And brotherly Love be the centre!