Then let us pray that come it may, As come it will for a’ that, That Gladstone’s worth o’er a’ the earth May bear the gree, and a’ that. For a’ that and a’that, It’s comin’ yet, for a’ that When man to man the kingdom o’er, Shall own his worth for a’ that. This Parody appeared in _Funny Folks_, which contained another, on the same original, on March 14, 1885, which is not now of sufficient interest to be included. ―――― A POLITICAL SONG. (_By a Man of no Party._) Is there for Whig and Tory men Who fumes and frets and a’ that, Who dips in gall his loveless pen, With wrath of man and a’ that. For a’ that, and a’ that, Their factions, feuds, and a’ that; In quiet nook we know to brook, A fruitful life for a’ that. What though we make no mighty din With place and power and a’ that; We wear, within a healthy skin, An honest heart for a’ that. For a’ that, and a’ that, There’s outs and inns and a’ that; Let Whig and Tory bark and bite, The good cause wins for a’ that! You see yon loon who taks his stand On blood and pedigree here, And thinks the Lord God made the land For him and his degree here, For a’ that, and a’ that, Their pridefu’ pranks and a’ that; We turn the sod, and claim from God Stout labours due for a’ that. You see yon big-mouthed bawling boy, Of bright millennium dreaming here, From equal votes to ragged coats, And brainless men and women here; For a’ that, and a’ that, Their high-flown prate and a’ that; Clear heads, firm will, and subtle skill, Will rule the State for a’ that. You see yon keen-eyed lank-faced lad, Who pleads the workmen’s cause here, And knows to surgeon all things bad, With patent brand new laws here. For a’ that, and a’ that, Their Communistic brag here; The sharpest eye, the game to spy, Will make the biggest bag here. You see yon lean and lanky lad, Who flings his pulpit ban here, Save the elect of his own sect, On all the human clan here, For a’ that, and a’ that, Though priests may curse and ban here, The God who sits in heaven shall laugh At vain conceit of man here. You see yon chiel who wags his tongue And bobs his wig and a’ that. Though he can prove that right is wrong, He’s but a prig for a’ that. For a’ that, and a’ that, Their shifty arts and a’ that; The pulse of right will beat with might, In human hearts for a’ that.