A MAN'S A MAN FOR A' THAT

Is there for honest poverty

That hangs his head, an' a' that;
The coward slave—we pass him by,
We dare be poor for a' that!
For a' that, an' a' that,

Our toils obscure an' 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 grey, an' a' that;

Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,
A man's a man for a' that:

For a' that, an' a' that,

Their tinsel show, an' a' that; The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor, Is king o' men for a' that.

Ye see yon birkie1 ca'd a lord,

Wha struts, an' stares, an' a' that; Tho' hundreds worship at his word, He's but a coof2 for a' that:

For a' that, an' a' that,

His ribband, star, an' a' that; The man o' independent mind He looks an' laughs at a' that.

A prince can mak a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, an' a' that;
But an honest man's aboon his might,
Gude faith, he mauna fa' that!
For a' that, an' a' that,

Their dignities an' a' that;

The pith o' sense, an' pride o' worth,
Are higher rank 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,
Shall bear the gree,1 an' a' that.
For a' that, an' a' that,

It's coming yet for a' that,

That man to man, the world o'er,
Shall brothers be for a' that.

COWPER

(OUTLINE HISTORY, § 85)

ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE

OH that those lips had language ! Life has passed
With me but roughly since I heard thee last.
Those lips are thine-thy own sweet smile I see,
The same that oft in childhood solaced me;
Voice only fails, else how distinct they say.
Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!'
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes
(Blest be the Art that can immortalize,—
The Art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim
To quench it) here shines on me still the same.
Faithful remembrancer of one so dear,

O welcome guest, though unexpected, here!
Who bidst me honour with an artless song,
Affectionate, a mother lost so long.
I will obey, not willingly alone,
But gladly, as the precept were her own:
And while that face renews my filial grief,
Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief,-
Shall steep me in Elysian reverie,
A momentary dream, that thou art she.

My mother! when I learned that thou wast dead, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son,

Wretch even then, life's journey just begun ?

1 Prize.

Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss;
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss-
Ah, that maternal smile! it answers- Yes.'
I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day,
I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away,
And, turning from my nursery window, drew
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu !

But was it such ?—It was.-Where thou art gone
Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown;
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,
The parting word shall pass my lips no more!
Thy maidens grieved themselves at my concern,
Oft gave me promise of thy quick return.
What ardently I wished, I long believed,
And, disappointed still, was still deceived;
By expectation every day beguiled,
Dupe of to-morrow even from a child.

Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went,
Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent,

I learned at last submission to my lot,

But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot. Where once we dwelt our name is heard no

more,

Children not thine have trod my nursery floor;
And where the gardener Robin, day by day,
Drew me to school along the public way,
Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapped
In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capped,
'Tis now become a history little known,

That once we called the pastoral house our own.
Shortlived possession! but the record fair,
That memory keeps of all thy kindness there,
Still outlives many a storm that has effaced
A thousand other themes less deeply traced.

Thy nightly visits to my chamber made,

That thou mightest know me safe and warmly laid; Thy morning bounties ere I left my home,

The biscuit, or confectionery plum;

The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed

By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed:

All this, and more endearing still than all,
Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall,
Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and breaks,
That humour interposed too often makes;
All this still legible in Memory's page,
And still to be so to my latest age,
Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay
Such honours to thee as my numbers may;
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere.

Not scorned in Heaven, though little noticed here.
Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours
When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers,
The violet, the pink, and jessamine,

I pricked them into paper with a pin,

(And thou wast happier than myself the while, Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head and smile),

Could those few pleasant days again appear,

Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here?
I would not trust my heart-the dear delight
Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might.—
But no-what here we call our life is such,
So little to be loved, and thou so much,
That I should ill requite thee, to constrain
Thy unbound spirit into bonds again.

Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast
(The storms all weathered and the ocean crossed)
Shoots into port at some well-havened isle,
Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile,
There sits quiescent on the floods that show
Her beauteous form reflected clear below,
While airs impregnated with incense play
Around her, fanning light her streamers gay;-

So thou, with sails how swift! hast reached the

shore,

Where tempests never beat nor billows roar;'

And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide

Of life, long since has anchored by thy side.
But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest,
Always from port withheld, always distressed-

Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-tossed,
Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and compass lost,
And day by day some current's thwarting force
Sets me more distant from a prosperous course.
Yet oh the thought, that thou art safe, and he !
That thought is joy, arrive what may to me.
My boast is not that I deduce my birth
From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth;
But higher far my proud pretensions rise-
The son of parents passed into the skies.
And now, Farewell.-Time unrevoked has run
His wonted course, yet what I wished is done.
By Contemplation's help, not sought in vain,
I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again;
To have renewed the joys that once were mine,
Without the sin of violating thine;

And while the wings of Fancy still are free,
And I can view this mimic show of thee,
Time has but half succeeded in his theft-

Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left.

TO MARY

THE twentieth year is well nigh past,
Since first our sky was overcast;

Ah would that this might be the last !

Thy spirits have a fainter flow,

I see thee daily weaker grow

My Mary!

'Twas my distress that brought thee low,

My Mary!

Thy needles, once a shining store,

For my sake restless heretofore,
Now rust disused, and shine no more,

My Mary!

For though thou gladly wouldst fulfill
The same kind office for me still,
Thy sight now seconds not thy will,
My Mary!