No More Learning

He modestly says to Thomson, "I do not give you this song for
your book, but merely by way of _vive la bagatelle_; for the piece is
really not poetry, but will be allowed to be two or three pretty good
prose thoughts inverted into rhyme. " Thomson took the song, but
hazarded no praise. ]


I.

Is there, for honest poverty,
That hangs his head, and a' that?
The coward-slave, we pass him by,
We dare be poor for a' that!
For a' that, and a' that,
Our toils obscure, and a' that;
The rank is but the guinea's stamp,
The man's the gowd for a' that!

II.

What tho' on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hoddin gray, and a' that;
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,
A man's a man, for a' that!
For a' that, and a' that,
Their tinsel show, and a' that;
The honest man, though e'er sae poor,
Is king o' men for a' that!

III.

Ye see yon birkie, ca'd--a lord,
Wha struts, and stares, and a' that;
Though hundreds worship at his word,
He's but a coof for a' that:
For a' that, and a' that,
His riband, star, and a' that,
The man of independent mind,
He looks and laughs at a' that.

IV.

A king can make a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, and a' that,
But an honest man's aboon his might,
Guid faith, he maunna fa' that!
For a' that, and a' that,
Their dignities, and a' that,
The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth,
Are higher ranks than a' that.

V.
Then let us pray that come it may--
As come it will for a' that--
That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth,
May bear the gree, and a' that;
For a' that, and a' that,
It's comin' yet for a' that,
That man to man, the warld o'er,
Shall brothers be for a' that!

* * * * *




CCXLV.

CRAIGIE-BURN WOOD.

[Craigie-burn Wood was written for George Thomson: the heroine was
Jean Lorimer. How often the blooming looks and elegant forms of very
indifferent characters lend a lasting lustre to painting and poetry. ]


I.

Sweet fa's the eve on Craigie-burn,
And blithe awakes the morrow;
But a' the pride o' spring's return
Can yield me nocht but sorrow.

II.

I see the flowers and spreading trees
I hear the wild birds singing;
But what a weary wight can please,
And care his bosom wringing?

III.

Fain, fain would I my griefs impart,
Yet dare na for your anger;
But secret love will break my heart,
If I conceal it langer.

IV.

If thou refuse to pity me,
If thou shall love anither,
When yon green leaves fade frae the tree,
Around my grave they'll wither.

* * * * *




CCXLVI.

O LASSIE, ART THOU SLEEPING YET.

Tune--"_Let me in this ae night.