64 By Now a' is done that men can do, My love and native land, farewell! For I maun cross the main. He turn'd him right and round about With Adieu for evermore ! The sodger frae the wars returns, My dear Never to meet again. When day is gane, and night is come, I think on him that 's far awa', The lee-lang night, and weep. There'll never be Peace Old Song.* yon castle wa', at the close of the day, I heard a man sing, tho' his head it was grey; And as he was singing, the tears fast down came, There 'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. lee-lang] live-long. main] the high sea. The Church is in ruins, the State is in jars, We darena weel say 't, tho' we ken wha's to blame— My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword, And now I greet round their green beds in the yerd. 66 Wee Willie Gray WEE Willie Gray, and his leather wallet; Peel a willow-wand to be him boots and jacket : The rose upon the brier will be him trouse and doublet, the brier will be him trouse and doublet. The rose upon Wee Willie Gray, and his leather wallet ; WEE, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie, I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee I'm truly sorry man's dominion Which mak's thee startle At me, thy poor earth-born companion, Burns. I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve; 'S a sma' request : I'll get a blessin' wi' the lave, sark] shirt. pattle] plough-spade. thrave] two dozen sheaves. bickering brattle] scurrying rush. daimen-icker] odd ear of corn. lave] remainder. Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin ! An' bleak December's winds ensuin', Thou saw the fields laid bare and waste, An' cozie here, beneath the blast, Till crash! the cruel coulter pass'd 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 an' pain Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me! An' forward tho' I canna see, foggage] aftermath. hald] hold, shelter. thy lane] alone. snell] biting. Burns, 1785. but] without. cranreuch] hoar-frost. 68 HERE's a health to them that's away, Here's a health to them that 's away, Here's a health to them that were here short syne, But canna be here the day. It 's guid to be merry and wise, It 's guid to be honest and true ; It 's guid to be aff wi' the auld luve Old Song.* Honour and shame from no condition rise; Act well your part, there all the honour lies. Fortune in men has some small difference made, One flaunts in rags, one flutters in brocade; The cobbler apron'd, and the parson gown'd, The friar hooded, and the monarch crown'd. 'What differ more (you cry) than crown and cowl ? ' I'll tell you, friend! a wise man and a fool. You'll find, if once the monarch acts the monk, Or, cobbler-like, the parson will be drunk, Worth makes the man, and want of it the fellow; The rest is all but leather or prunella. Pope. 70* A Man's a Man for a' that Is there for honest poverty That hangs his head, and a' that ? The coward slave, we pass him by, but] nothing but. We dare be poor for a' that! short syne] a short time ago. prunella] the stuff the parson's gown was made of. Is there] Is there any one who hangs.. |