I mind how fair the world was one bright summer day,
Sitting in a shady place better seemed than play;
Childhood's golden memories never fade away;
My child friend most sweet and fair,
My bright Lily she was there;
We read and mused in silence and spoke our thoughts by turns;
Lily, with her lofty look,
Turned oftenest to her book,
The book that lay between us was the peasant poet Burns.

The heaven-gifted man with winsome witching art,
Who touches at his will the kindly human heart,
'Till it throbs with joy like pain and tears begin to start;
He so tenderly touched ours
With his melting magic powers,
Made feelings which he felt within our bosoms spring,
Where he wished for Scotia's sake,
Some plan or book to make,
Or to write the bonnie songs his country loves to sing.

Fancies wild were ours on that day so long ago,
Stirred by Burns's genius, for we had learned to know
The beauty of sweet Erin and something of her woe;
And in song we longed to tell
Of the land we loved so well,
Singing words of hope and cheer, wailing each sad mishap,
Like the daisies on the sod,
With their faces turned to God,
Clung we to the island green that nursed us on her lap.