Tho’ women’s minds, like winter winds, May shift, and turn, an’ a’ that, The noblest breast adores them maist— A consequence I draw that. Chorus For a’ that, an’ a’ that, And twice as meikle’s a’ that; The bonie lass that I loe best She’ll be my ain for a’ that. 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. Song—Merry Hae I Been Teethin A Heckle Tune—“The bob O’ Dumblane.” 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. The Cotter’s Saturday Night Inscribed to R. Aiken, Esq., of Ayr. 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!