I mind it weel, in early date, When I was beardless, young and blate, An’ first could thresh the barn, Or haud a yokin’ at the pleugh, An’ tho’ forfoughten sair eneugh, Yet unco proud to learn,— When first amang the yellow corn A man I reckon’d was, And wi’ the lave ilk merry morn Could rank my rig and lass, Still shearing, and clearing The tither stooked raw, Wi’ claivers, an’ haivers, Wearing the day awa,— Ev’n then a wish (I mind its power!) A wish that to my latest hour Shall strongly heave my breast; That I for poor auld Scotland’s sake, Some usefu’ plan or beuk could make, Or sing a sang at least. The rough bur-thistle, spreading wide Amang the bearded bear, I turn’d the weeder-clips aside, An’ spar’d the symbol dear: No nation, no station, My envy e’er could raise; A Scot still, but blot still, I knew nae higher praise. But still the elements o’ sang In formless jumble, right an’ wrang, Wild floated in my brain; Till on that hairst I said before, My partner in the merry core, She rous’d the forming strain: I see her yet, the sonsie quean, That lighted up my jingle, Her witching smile, her pauky een, That gart my heart-strings tingle; I firèd, inspirèd, At ev’ry kindling keek, But bashing, and dashing, I fearèd aye to speak.... SCOTS WHA HAE ROBERT BRUCE’S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY, BEFORE THE BATTLE OF BANNOCKBURN Scots, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled, Scots, wham Bruce has aften led, Welcome to your gory bed, Or to victorie. Now’s the day, and now’s the hour; See the front o’ battle lour! See approach proud Edward’s power— Chains and slaverie! Wha will be a traitor knave? Wha can fill a coward’s grave? Wha sae base as be a slave? Let him turn and flee! Wha for Scotland’s King and law Freedom’s sword will strongly draw, Freeman stand, or freeman fa’? Let him follow me! By oppression’s woes and pains! By your sons in servile chains! We will drain our dearest veins, But they shall be free! Lay the proud usurpers low! Tyrants fall in every foe! Liberty’s in every blow! Let us do or die! FOR A’ THAT AND A’ THAT Is 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 stamp; The man’s the gowd for a’ that.