A Man's a Man for A' That

Is there for honest Poverty
That hings 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 hodden grey, an' 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, an' 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, an' stares, an' a' that;

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poem by Robert Burns
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When Princes and Prelates

When Princes and Prelates and het-headed zealots
All Europe hae set in a lowe,
The poor man lies down, nor envies a crown,
And comforts himsel with a mowe.—

And why shouldna poor folk mowe, mowe, mowe,
And why shouldna poor folk mowe:
The great folk hae siller, and houses and lands,
Poor bodies hae naething but mowe.—

When Brunswick's great Prince cam a cruising to France
Republican billies to cowe,
Bauld Brunswick's great Prince wad hae shawn better sense
At hame with his Princess to mowe.—

And why shouldna, &c.

Out over the Rhine proud Prussia wad shine,
To spend his best blood he did vow;
But Frederic had better ne'er forded the water,

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poem by Robert Burns
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Does Haughty Gaul Invasion Threat?

Does haughty Gaul invasion threat?
Then let the louns beware, Sir;
There's wooden walls upon our seas,
And volunteers on shore, Sir:
The Nith shall run to Corsincon,
And Criffel sink in Solway,
Ere we permit a Foreign Foe
On British ground to rally!
We'll ne'er permit a Foreign Foe
On British ground to rally!

O let us not, like snarling curs,
In wrangling be divided,
Till, slap! come in an unco loun,
And wi' a rung decide it!
Be Britain still to Britain true,
Amang ourselves united;
For never but by British hands
Maun British wrangs be righted!
No! never but by British hands

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poem by Robert Burns
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Address to Wm. Tytler, Esq., of Woodhouselee

Revered defender of beauteous Stuart,
Of Stuart, a name once respected;
A name, which to love was the mark of a true heart,
But now 'tis despis'd and neglected.

Tho' something like moisture conglobes in my eye,
Let no one misdeem me disloyal;
A poor friendless wand'rer may well claim a sigh,
Still more if that wand'rer were royal.

My fathers that name have rever'd on a throne:
My fathers have fallen to right it;
Those fathers would spurn their degenerate son,
That name should he scoffingly slight it.

Still in prayers for King George I most heartily join,
The Queen, and the rest of the gentry:
Be they wise, be they foolish, is nothing of mine;
Their title's avow'd by my country.

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poem by Robert Burns
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For a' That and a' That

1 Is there, for honest poverty,
2 That hings his head, an' a' that?
3 The coward slave, we pass him by,
4 We dare be poor for a' that!
5 For a' that, an' a' that,
6 Our toils obscure, an' a' that;
7 The rank is but the guinea's stamp;
8 The man's the gowd for a' that,

9 What tho' on hamely fare we dine,
10 Wear hoddin-gray, an' a' that;
11 Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,
12 A man's a man for a' that.
13 For a' that, an' a' that,
14 Their tinsel show an' a' that;
15 The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor,
16 Is king o' men for a' that.

17 Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord
18 Wha struts, an' stares, an' a' that;

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poem by Robert Burns
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The Bold Princess Royal

O on the fourteenth day of February we sailed from the land
In the bold Princess Royal bound for Newfoundland.
We had forty bright sailors for our ship's companie,
And boldly from the eastward to the westward sailed we.

We had not been sailing scarce days two or three
When our man from the masthead a sail he did see.
She bore down upon us to see what we were,
When from under her mizzen black colours she wore.

My God cries our Captain what shall we do now
For there comes a bold pirate to rob us I know.
O no, cries our chief mate it cannot be so
For we'll spread out our reef boys and from her we'll go.

And when this bold pirate came up alongside
Through a loudspeaking trumpet he said 'Who are you?'
Our Captain walked the quarterdeck and he answered him so
'We come from fair London and we're bound for Cairo.'

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poem by Robert Burns
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Green Grow the Rashes

Green grow the rashes, O
Green grow the rashes, O
The sweetest hours that e'er I spend,
Are spent among the lasses, O

There's nought but care on ev'ry han',
In every hour that passes, O
What signifies the life o' man,
An' 'twere na for the lasses, O.

Green grow the rashes, O
Green grow the rashes, O
The sweetest hours that e'er I spend,
Are spent among the lasses, O

The warl'y race may riches chase,
An' riches still may fly them, O
An' tho' at last they catch them fast,
Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O.

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poem by Robert Burns
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O Let Me in Thes Ae Night

His question

O Lassie, are ye sleepin yet,
Or are ye waukin, I wad wit?
For Love has bound me hand an' fit,
And I would fain be in, jo.

Chorus
O let me in this ae night,
This ae, ae, ae night;
O let me in this ae night,
I'll no come back again, jo!

O hear'st thou not the wind an' weet?
Nae star blinks thro' the driving sleet;
Tak pity on my weary feet,
And shield me frae the rain, jo.

Chorus
O let me in, etc.

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poem by Robert Burns
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To A Mouse, (The best Laid Schemes O' Mice An' Men)

Wee, sleeket, cowrin, tim'rous beastie,
Oh, what a panic's in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty
Wi' bickerin brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee
Wi' murd'ring pattle!

I'm truly sorry man's dominion
Has broken Nature's social union,
An' justifies that ill opinion
Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor earth-born companion,
An' fellow-mortal!

I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve:
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen icker in a thrave
'S a sma' request;
I'll get a blessin wi' the lave,
An' never miss 't!

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poem by Robert Burns
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To a Mouse, on Turning Up Her Nest With the Plough

Wee, sleeket, cowrin, tim'rous beastie,
Oh, what a panic's in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty
Wi' bickerin brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee
Wi' murd'ring pattle!

I'm truly sorry man's dominion
Has broken Nature's social union,
An' justifies that ill opinion
Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor earth-born companion,
An' fellow-mortal!

I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve:
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen icker in a thrave
'S a sma' request;
I'll get a blessin wi' the lave,
An' never miss 't!

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poem by Robert Burns
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