I.
Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled,
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led;
Welcome to your gory bed,
Or to victorie!
II.
Now's the day, and now's the hour;
See the front o' battle lour:
See approach proud Edward's pow'r — Chains and slaverie!
III.
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!
IV.
Wha for Scotland's king and law
Freedom's sword will strongly draw,
Freeman stand, or freeman fa',
Let him follow me!
V.
By oppression's woes and pains!
By our sons in servile chains!
We will drain our dearest veins,
But they shall be free!
VI.
Lay the proud usurpers low!
Tyrants fall in every foe!
Liberty's in every blow! — Let us do or die!
Scottish poet and lyricist (1759–1796)
Robert Burns (25 January 1759 – 21 July 1796) was a poet and pioneer of the Romantic movement and after his death became an important source of inspiration to the founders of both liberalism and socialism. He is widely regarded as the national poet of Scotland.
From: Wikiquote (CC BY-SA 4.0)
Also Known As:
Bard of Ayrshire
Alternative Names:
Robbie Burns
•
Rabbie Burns
•
Scotland's favorite son
•
Ploughman Poet
•
The Bard
•
National poet of Scotland
•
Robden of Solway Firth
From Wikidata (CC0)
"Wha Is That At My Bower-Door
1783
Wha is that at my bower-door?
O wha is it but Findlay!
Then gae your gate, ye'se nae be here:
Indeed maun I, quo' Findlay;
What mak' ye, sae like a thief?
O come and see, quo' Findlay;
Before the morn ye'll work mischief:
Indeed will I, quo' Findlay.
Gif I rise and let you in-
Let me in, quo' Findlay;
Ye'll keep me waukin wi' your din;"
Indeed will I, quo' Findlay;
In my bower if ye should stay-
Let me stay, quo' Findlay;
I fear ye'll bide till break o' day;
Indeed will I, quo' Findlay.
Here this night if ye remain-
I'll remain, quo' Findlay;
I dread ye'll learn the gate again;
Indeed will I, quo' Findlay.
What may pass within this bower-
Let it pass, quo' Findlay;
Ye maun conceal till your last hour:
Indeed will I, quo' Findlay.
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Is there for honest Poverty
That hings his head, an' a' that;
The coward slave-we pass him by,
We dare be poor for a' that!
For a' that, an' a' that.
Our toils obscure an' a' that,
The rank is but the guinea's stamp,
The Man's the gowd for a' that.
What though on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hoddin grey, an' a that;
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine;
A Man's a Man for a' that:
For a' that, and a' that,
Their tinsel show, an' a' that;
The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor,
Is king o' men for a' that.
Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord,
Wha struts, an' stares, an' a' that;
Tho' hundreds worship at his word,
He's but a coof for a' that:
For a' that, an' a' that,
His ribband, star, an' a' that:
The man o' independent mind
He looks an' laughs at a' that.
A prince can mak a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, an' a' that;
But an honest man's abon his might,
Gude faith, he maunna fa' that!
For a' that, an' a' that,
Their dignities an' a' that;
The pith o' sense, an' pride o' worth,
Are higher rank than a' that.
Then let us pray that come it may,
(As come it will for a' that,)
That Sense and Worth, o'er a' the earth,
Shall bear the gree, an' a' that.
For a' that, an' a' that,
It's coming yet for a' that,
That Man to Man, the world o'er,
Shall brothers be for a' that.