"For All That and All That" by Robert Burns

Is there for honest poverty that hangs his head and all that?

The lowly slave, we pass him by, we dare be poor for all that!

For all that and all that, our toils obscure and all that

The rank is but the guinea stamp, the man's the gold for all that.


Although on homely fare we dine, wear common gray and all that;

Give fools their silk and knaves their wine,

A man's a man for all that:

For all that and all that, their tinsel show and all that:

The honest man though e'er so poor is King of Men for all that.


You see yon fellow called a lord who struts and stares and all that;

Though hundreds worship at his word, he's but a fool for all that:

For all that and all that, his ribbon, star and all that,

The man of independent mind, he looks and laughs at all that.


A king, a prince, a belted knight, a marquis, duke and all that;

But an honest man's above his might,

Good faith he must not lose that!

For all that and all that, their dignities and all that,

Common sense and pride of worth are higher rank than all that.


Then let us pray that come it may,

As come it may for all that;

That sense and worth o'er all the earth,

May win the prize for all that.

For all that and all that, it's coming yet for all that

That man to man the world o'er

Shall brothers be for all that.


That women and men the world o'er

Shall be brothers and sisters for all that.


"To a Mouse" by Robert Burns

Wee slinkin', cow'rin, timorous beastie,

O what a panic's in thy breastie!

Thou need na start away sae hasty

With bickering brattle!

I wad be loath to run and chase thee

With murdering paddle!

I'm truly sorry man's dominion

Has broken nature's social union

And justifies that ill opinion

Which makes thee startled

At me, thy poor earth-born companion

And fellow mortal!

I doubt na but thou may thieve

What then, poor beastie, thou may na live?

'S a sma request:

A precious gift of life to gie

And never miss't!

Thy wee house too, in ruin!

It's little walls the winds are strewin'

And nothing there to make a new one

Until the spring!

An' bleak Decembers winds ensuin'

So strong and keen!

Thou see the fields laid bare and waste

And weary winter comin' fast.

And cozy here, beneath the blast

Thou sought to dwell.

'Til all the cruel cold has passed

Out through thy cell.

The wee bit of leaves an' stubble

Has cost thee many a weary nibble!

And now turned out for all thy trouble

Of house an' home

To feel the winter's sleety drizzle

An' crushing cold!

But mousie, thou art not alone

In proving foresight may be vain:

The best laid plans o' mice and men

Gang aft agley

An lea us nought but grief an' pain

For promised joy.

Still thou art blessed compared with me

The present only touches thee

But, Oh, I backwards cast my e'e

On prospects drear!

And forward, though I canna see

I guess and fear!