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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, tho' e'er sae poor,
Is King o' men for a' that.

Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord,

Wha struts, and stares, and a' that; Tho' 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

As come it will for a' that;

may,

That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth,
May bear the gree, and a' that;

For a' that, and a' that,

It's coming yet, for a' that;
That man to man, the warld o'er,
Shall brothers be for a' that.

MARY MORISON.

MARY, at thy window be!

It is the wish'd, the trysted hour!
Those smiles and glances let me see
That mak the miser's treasure poor:
How blithely wad I bide the stoure,
A weary slave frae sun to sun,
Could I the rich reward secure,
The lovely Mary Morison.

Yestreen when to the trembling string
The dance gaed through the lighted ha',

To thee my fancy took its wing, -
I sat, but neither heard nor saw :

Though this was fair, and that was braw,
And yon the toast of a' the town,
I sigh'd, and said amang them a',
Ye are na Mary Morison."

66

O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace
Wha for thy sake wad gladly dee?
Or canst thou break that heart of his,
Whase only faut is loving thee?
If love for love thou wilt na gie,
At least be pity to me shown;
A thought ungentle canna be
The thought o' Mary Morison.

TO MARY IN HEAVEN.

HOU ling'ring star, with less'ning ray, That lov'st to greet the early morn, Again thou usher'st in the day My Mary from my soul was torn. O Mary! dear departed shade! Where is thy place of blissful rest? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid?

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

That sacred hour can I forget?
Can I forget the hallow'd grove,
Where by the winding Ayr we met,
To live one day of parting love?
Eternity will not efface

Those records dear of transports past;
Thy image at our last embrace;

Ah! little thought we 't was our last!

Ayr gurgling kiss'd his pebbled shore,
O'erhung with wild woods, thick'ning green;
The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar,
Twin'd am'rous round the raptur'd scene.
The flowers sprang wanton to be prest,
The birds sang love on ev'ry spray, -
Till too, too soon, the glowing west
Proclaim'd the speed of winged day.

Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes,
And fondly broods with miser care!
Time but th' impression deeper makes,
As streams their channels deeper wear.
My Mary, dear departed shade!

Where is thy blissful place of rest?
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ?

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

COMING THROUGH THE RYE.

COMING through the rye, poor body,
Coming through the rye,

She draiglet a' her petticoatie,
Coming through the rye.
Jenny's a' wat, poor body,
Jenny's seldom dry;
She draiglet a' her petticoatie,
Coming through the rye.

[blocks in formation]

Jenny 's a' wat, poor body;
Jenny's seldom dry ;

She draiglet a' her petticoatie,
Coming through the rye.

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