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!

  IS THERE FOR HONEST POVERTY

  [A MAN’S A MAN FOR A’ THAT]

  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, an’ 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 cuif 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 aboon his might;
  Guid faith, he mauna 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 comin yet for a’ that,
  That man to man, the world o’er,
  Shall brithers be for a’ that.

  LAST MAY A BRAW WOOER

  Last May a braw wooer cam down the lang glen,
  And sair wi’ his love he did deave me: 
  I said there was naething I hated like men;
  The deuce gae wi’m to believe me, believe me,
  The deuce gae wi’m to believe me!

  He spak o’ the darts in my bonie black een,
  And vowed for my love he was dyin: 
  I said he might die when he liket for Jean;
  The Lord forgie me for lyin, for lyin,
  The Lord forgie me for lyin!

  A weel-stoeket mailen, himsel for the laird,
  And marriage aff-hand, were his proffers: 
  I never loot on that I kenned it or cared;
  But thought I might hae waur offers, waur offers,
  But thought I might hae waur offers.