But O, fell Death's untimely frost, Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay O pale, pale now, those rosy lips TO A MOUSE, ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST, WITH THE PLOUGH WEE, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie, Wi' bickerin brattle1! I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, I'm truly sorry man's dominion An' justifies that ill opinion, Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor, earth-born companion, I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve; Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin! An' bleak December's winds ensuin, Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, An' cozie here, beneath the blast, Thou thought to dwell, Till, crash! the cruel coulter past That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble To thole the winter's sleety dribble, But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane An' lea'e us nought but grief and pain Still, thou art blest, compared wi' me! But, och! I backward cast my e'e On prospects drear! An' forward, tho' .I canna see, I guess an' fear! JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO JOHN ANDERSON my jo, John, John Anderson my jo, John, O, WERT THOU IN THE CAULD BLAST O, WERT thou in the cauld blast I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee. Or were I in the wildest waste, Sae black and bare, sae black and bare, The desert were a Paradise, If thou wert there, if thou wert there. Or were I monarch o' the globe, Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign, Wad be my queen, wad be my queen. IS THERE FOR HONEST POVERTY A MAN'S A MAN FOR A' THAT Is there for honest poverty That hings his head, and a' that? Our toils obscure, and a' that, What tho' on hamely fare we dine, Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine- For a' that, and a' that, Their tinsel show, and a' that, The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor, Ye see yon birkie2 ca'd a lord, Wha struts, and stares, and a' that? Tho' hundreds worship at his word, He's but a cuif3 for a' that. For a' that, an' a' that, His riband, star, and a' that, A prince can mak a belted knight, 1 coarse woollen cloth. 2 conceited fellow. 3 blockhead. But an honest man's aboon1 his might Their dignities and a' that, The pith o' sense and pride o' worth Then let us pray that come it may That Sense and Worth o'er a' the earth, For a' that, and a' that, It's coming yet, for a' that, WILLIAM BLAKE [1757-1827] TO THE MUSES WHETHER on Ida's shady brow, Whether in Heaven ye wander fair, Where the melodious winds have birth Whether on crystal rocks ye rove How have you left your ancient love 1 above. 2 claim. |