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38

RUST me, Clara Vere de Vere,

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From yon blue heavens above us bent

The gardener Adam and his wife

Smile at the claims of long descent.
Howe'er it be, it seems to me
'Tis only noble to be good.

Kind hearts are more than coronets,
And simple faith than Norman blood.
TENNYSON (Lady Clara Vere de Vere).

H

I

39

́S THERE, for honest poverty,

That hangs his head, and a' that? The coward slave, we pass him by,

We dare be poor for a' that! For a' that, and a' that,

Our toils obscure, and 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 gray, and 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, and a' that;

The honest man, though 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;

Though 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 king can mak a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, and a' that,
But an honest man's aboon his might,
Gude 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 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, and a' that;

For a' that, and a' that,

It's comin' yet for a' that,

That man to man, the world o'er,

Shall brothers be for a' that!

BURNS.

40

HE rich man's son inherits lands,

THE

And piles of brick, and stone, and gold,

And he inherits soft white hands,

And tender flesh that fears the cold,
Nor dares to wear a garment old;
A heritage, it seems to me,

One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

The rich man's son inherits cares:

The bank may break, the factory burn, A breath may burst his bubble shares, And soft white hands could hardly earn A living that would serve his turn; A heritage, it seems to me,

One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit?
Stout muscles and a sinewy heart,

A hardy frame, a hardier spirit;

King of two hands, he does his part
In every useful toil and art;

A heritage, it seems to me,
A king might wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit?
A patience learned of being poor,
Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it,
A fellow-feeling that is sure

To make the outcast bless his door;
A heritage, it seems to me,

A king might wish to hold in fee.

O rich man's son! there is a toil
That with all others level stands:
Large charity doth never soil,

But only whiten, soft white hands,— This is the best crop from thy lands; A heritage, it seems to me,

Worth being rich to hold in fee.

O poor man's son! scorn not thy state;
There is worse weariness than thine,

In merely being rich and great;
Toil only gives the soul to shine,

And makes rest fragrant and benign; A heritage, it seems to me,

Worth being poor to hold in fee.

LOWELL (The Heritage).

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