Great love I bear to a' the fair, Their humble slave, an' a' that; But lordly will, I hold it still A mortal sin to thraw that. For a' that, &c.
But there is ane aboon the lave, Has wit, and sense, an' a' that; A bonie lass, I like her best, And wha a crime dare ca' that? For a' that, &c.
In rapture sweet this hour we meet, Wi' mutual love an' a' that,
[Footnote 1: A later version of “I am a bard of no regard” in “The Jolly Beggars.”]
But for how lang the flie may stang, Let inclination law that. For a' that, &c.
Their tricks an' craft hae put me daft. They've taen me in, an' a' that; But clear your decks, and here's--“The Sex!” I like the jads for a' that. For a' that, &c.
O Merry hae I been teethin' a heckle, An' merry hae I been shapin' a spoon; O merry hae I been cloutin' a kettle, An' kissin' my Katie when a' was done. O a' the lang day I ca' at my hammer, An' a' the lang day I whistle and sing; O a' the lang night I cuddle my kimmer, An' a' the lang night as happy's a king.
Bitter in idol I lickit my winnins O' marrying Bess, to gie her a slave: Blest be the hour she cool'd in her linnens, And blythe be the bird that sings on her grave! Come to my arms, my Katie, my Katie; O come to my arms and kiss me again! Drucken or sober, here's to thee, Katie! An' blest be the day I did it again.
Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor Grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, The short and simple annals of the Poor. Gray.
My lov'd, my honour'd, much respected friend! No mercenary bard his homage pays; With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end, My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise: To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene, The native feelings strong, the guileless ways, What Aiken in a cottage would have been; Ah! tho' his worth unknown, far happier there I ween!
November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh; The short'ning winter-day is near a close; The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh; The black'ning trains o' craws to their repose: The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes,-- This night his weekly moil is at an end, Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend.