Ae fond kiss, and then we sever! 
    Ae farewell, and then forever! 
    Deep in heart-wrung tears I’ll pledge thee,
    Warring sighs and groans I’ll wage thee. 
    Who shall say that Fortune grieves him
    While the star of hope she leaves him? 
    Me, nae cheerfu’ twinkle lights me;
    Dark despair around benights me. 
    I’ll ne’er blame my partial fancy,
    Naething could resist my Nancy;
    But to see her was to love her;
    Love but her, and love forever. 
    Had we never lov’d sae kindly,
    Had we never lov’d sae blindly,
    Never met—­or never parted—­
    We had ne’er been broken-hearted.

The “essence of a thousand love tales” is in that one little song.  Because he embodies the new spirit of romanticism, critics give him a high place in the history of our literature; and because his songs go straight to the heart, he is the poet of common men.

Of Burns’s many songs for music little need be said.  They have found their way into the hearts of a whole people, and there they speak for themselves.  They range from the exquisite “O wert thou in the cauld blast,” to the tremendous appeal to Scottish patriotism in “Scots wha hae wi’ Wallace bled,” which, Carlyle said, should be sung with the throat of the whirlwind.  Many of these songs were composed in his best days, when following the plow or resting after his work, while the music of some old Scotch song was ringing in his head.  It is largely because he thought of music while he composed that so many of his poems have the singing quality, suggesting a melody as we read them.

Among his poems of nature, “To a Mouse” and “To a Mountain Daisy” are unquestionably the best, suggesting the poetical possibilities that daily pass unnoticed under our feet.  These two poems are as near as Burns ever comes to appreciating nature for its own sake.  The majority of his poems, like “Winter” and “Ye banks and braes o’ bonie Doon,” regard nature in the same way that Gray regarded it, as a background for the play of human emotions.

Of his poems of emotion there is an immense number.  It is a curious fact that the world is always laughing and crying at the same moment; and we can hardly read a page of Burns without finding this natural juxtaposition of smiles and tears.  It is noteworthy also that all strong emotions, when expressed naturally, lend themselves to poetry; and Burns, more than any other writer, has an astonishing faculty of describing his own emotions with vividness and simplicity, so that they appeal instantly to our own.  One cannot read, “I love my Jean,” for instance, without being in love with some idealized woman; or “To Mary in Heaven,” without sharing the personal grief of one who has loved and lost.