ROBERT BURNS ROBERT BURNS, Scottish poet, born near Ayr in 1759; died 1796. Although his boyhood was a hard struggle with poverty, he managed, by reading as he went to and from his work, and following the plow, to become fairly well educated in the literature of the day, especially of his own country. His poems cover a wide range, those dealing with the peasant life of his country, and his simple ballads, being the best. It is useless to compare him to Scott, as is so often done, as they worked in different fields, each the best of its kind. IS THERE FOR HONEST POVERTY I S there for honest poverty That hings his head, 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. II What though on hamely fare we dine, Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine- For a' that, an' a' that, Their tinsel show, an' a' that, The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor, Is king o' men for a' that. III Ye see yon birkie ca'd a lord," His ribband, star, an' a' that, IV A prince can mak a belted knight, But an honest man 's aboon his might~. For a' that, an' a' that, Their dignities, an' a' that, The pith o' sense an' pride o' worth Are higher rank than a' that. V 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 an' a' that! For a' that, an' a' that, It 's comin yet for a' that, That man to man the world o'er THE BANKS O' DOON I E banks and braes o' bonie Doon, YE How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair? How can ye chant, ye little birds, And I sae weary fu' o' care! Thou 'll break my heart, thou warbling bird, That wantons thro' the flowering thorn! Thou minds me o' departed joys, Departed never to return. II Aft hae I rov'd by bonie Doon And fondly sae did I o' mine. SCOTS WHA HAE I COTS, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, Welcome to your gory bed Or to victorie! II Now's the day, and now 's the hour: See approach proud Edward's power— III Wha will be a traitor knave? IV Wha for Scotland's King and Law V By Oppression's woes and pains, VI Lay the proud usurpers low! MY WIFE'S A WINSOME WEE THING I CHORUS She is a winsome wee thing, She is a lo'esome wee thing, This sweet wee wife o' mine! I NEVER saw a fairer, I never lo'ed a dearer, And neist my heart I 'll wear her, The sweetest hours that e'er I spend, I HERE'S nought but care on ev'ry han, TH In every hour that passes, 0: What signifies the life o' man, An' 't were nae for the lasses, O. II The war'ly race may riches chase, An' tho' at last they catch them fast, III But gie me a cannie hour at e'en, |