38 RUST me, Clara Vere de Vere, From yon blue heavens above us bent The gardener Adam and his wife Smile at the claims of long descent. Kind hearts are more than coronets, 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, Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, 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, 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 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, 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? A hardy frame, a hardier spirit; King of two hands, he does his part A heritage, it seems to me, What doth the poor man's son inherit? To make the outcast bless his door; A king might wish to hold in fee. O rich man's son! there is a toil 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; In merely being rich and great; And makes rest fragrant and benign; A heritage, it seems to me, Worth being poor to hold in fee. LOWELL (The Heritage). |