What is a lordling's pomp! a cumbrous load, Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refined!

O Scotia! my dear, my native soil!

For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent! Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil

Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content! And oh! may Heaven their simple lives prevent From Luxury's contagion weak and vile!

Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent,

A virtuous populace may rise the while,

And stand a wall of fire around their much-loved Isle.

O Thou! who poured the patriotic tide

That streamed through Wallace's undaunted heart; Who dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride,

Or nobly die, the second glorious part,
(The patriot's God peculiarly thou art,
His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!)
O never, never, Scotia's realm desert;
But still the patriot, and the patriot bard,
In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard!

JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO

OHN ANDERSON, my jo, John,

JOHN

When we were first acquent,
Your locks were like the raven,

Your bonnie brow was brent;
But now your brow is bald, John,
Your locks are like the snaw;
But blessings on your frosty pow,
John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John,

We clamb the hill thegither;

And mony a canty day, John,

We've had wi' ane anither:

Now we maun totter down, John,
But hand in hand we'll go;
And sleep thegither at the foot,
John Anderson, my jo.

MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN

A DIRGE

HEN chill November's surly blast
Made fields and forests bare,

WHEN

One evening, as I wandered forth
Along the banks of Ayr,

I spied a man, whose aged step

Seemed weary, worn with care;

His face was furrowed o'er with years,
And hoary was his hair.

"Young stranger, whither wanderest thou ?» Began the reverend sage;

"Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain,

Or youthful pleasure's rage?

Or haply, pressed with cares and woes,
Too soon thou hast began

To wander forth, with me, to mourn
The miseries of man!

"The sun that overhangs yon moors,
Outspreading far and wide,
Where hundreds labor to support
A haughty lordling's pride;-
I've seen yon weary winter sun
Twice forty times return;
And every time has added proofs
That man was made to mourn.

"O man! while in thy early years,
How prodigal of time!
Misspending all thy precious hours,

Thy glorious youthful prime!

Alternate follies take the sway,
Licentious passions burn;

Which tenfold force gives Nature's law,
That man was made to mourn.

"Look not alone on youthful prime,
Or manhood's active might;

Man then is useful to his kind,
Supported is his right:

But see him on the edge of life,

With cares and sorrows worn,

Then age and want-oh ill-matched pair! — Show man was made to mourn.

"A few seem favorites of fate,

In Pleasure's lap caressed;

Yet think not all the rich and great
Are likewise truly blest.

But oh! what crowds in every land
Are wretched and forlorn!

Through weary life this lesson learn,
That man was made to mourn.

"Many and sharp the num'rous ills
Inwoven with our frame;

More pointed still we make ourselves
Regret, remorse, and shame!
And man, whose heaven-erected face
The smiles of love adorn,

Man's inhumanity to man

Makes countless thousands mourn!

"See yonder poor o'er-labored wight,
So abject, mean, and vile,
Who begs a brother of the earth
To give him leave to toil;
And see his lordly fellow-worm
The poor petition spurn,
Unmindful, though a weeping wife
And helpless offspring mourn.

"If I'm designed yon lordling's slave,
By Nature's law designed,
Why was an independent wish

E'er planted in my mind?

If not, why am I subject to

His cruelty or scorn?

Or why has man the will and power
To make his fellow mourn?

"Yet let not this too much, my son,
Disturb thy youthful breast;

This partial view of humankind
Is surely not the best!

The poor, oppressed, honest man,

Had never, sure, been born,

Had there not been some recompense
To comfort those that mourn.

"O Death! the poor man's dearest friend –

The kindest and the best!

Welcome the hour my agèd limbs

Are laid with thee at rest!

The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow

From pomp and pleasure torn;

But, oh! a blest relief to those

That weary-laden mourn!»

GREEN GROW THE RASHES

HERE'S naught but care on every han',

TH

In every hour that passes, 0:
What signifies the life o' man,
An 't werena for the lasses, O?

CHORUS

Green grow the rashes, O!

Green grow the rashes, O!
The sweetest hours that e'er I spent
Were spent amang the lasses, O!

The warly race may riches chase,

An' riches still may fly them, O;

An' though at last they catch them fast,
Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O.

But gi'e me a canny hour at e'en,
My arms about my dearie, O;
An' warly cares, an' warly men,
May a' gae tapsalteerie, O!

For you sae douce, ye sneer at this,
Ye're nought but senseless asses, O;
The wisest man the warl' e'er saw,
He dearly loved the lasses, O.

Auld Nature swears the lovely dears
Her noblest work she classes, O;
Her 'prentice han' she tried on man,
An' then she made the lasses, O.

IS THERE FOR HONEST POVERTY

IS THERE for honest poverty

Is

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 toil's obscure, and a' that:
The rank is but the guinea's stamp,

The man's the gowd for a' that.

What though on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hoddin gray, and a' that?

Gi'e 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.

Ye see yon birkie,1 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.

A prince can mak' a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, and a' that,

But an honest man's aboon his might-
Guid faith, he mauna 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.

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!