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And each loud passion of the mind
Ye see yon birkie ca'd a lord,
Wha struts, and stares, and a' that, Though hundreds worship at his word,
He's but a coof for a' that ; For a' that, and a' that,
His riband, star, and a' that; The man of independent mind,
He looks and laughs at a' that.
It is a flower which buds and grows
A prince can mak a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, and a' that; But an honest man 's aboon his might,
Guid faith, he maunna fa' that!
Their dignities, and a' that;
Are higher ranks than a' that.
As come it will for a' that, That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth,
May bear the gree, and a' that. For a' that, and a' that,
It's coming yet, for a' that, – When man to man, the warld o'er,
Shall brothers be for a' that!
It is a dream whose seeming truth
It is a dial which points out
It is a weary interlude,
THE END OF THE PLAY.
A good that never satisfies the mind,
The play is done, - the curtain drops,
Slow falling to the prompter's bell ; A moment yet the actor stops,
And looks around, to say farewell. It is an irksome word and task ;
And, when he's laughed and said his say, He shows, as he removes the mask,
A face that's anything but gay.
What is the existence of man's life
One word, ere yet the evening ends,
Let's close it with a parting rhyme ;
As fits the merry Christmas time ;
That fate erelong shall bid you play ; Good night !— with honest, gentle hearts
A kindly greeting go alway! Good night !- I'd say the griefs, the joys,
Just hinted in this mimic page, The triumphs and defeats of boys,
Are but repeated in our age ;
, and omish, the boat right again, with a great wahering light hind show's the names álom love of head lama
, and l' Aun Adhem's name i all the rut
/ here on this blare Thanksging tight, the raise To The one grateful brico; for what Than daess, Lord, is righe And this believing the rycnes.
Then why, O blessed Jesus Christ,
Should I not love thee well ? Not for the hope of winning heaven,
Nor of escaping hell !
Not seeking a reward ;
O everlasting Lord !
E'en so I love thee, and will lore,
And in thy praise will sing, Solely because thou art my God, And my eternal King. ST. FRANCIS XAVIER (Latin). Translation
of EDWARD CASWELL.
THE NEW JERUSALEM. O MOTHER dear, Jerusalem,
When shall I come to thee?
Thy joys when shall I see?
O sweet and pleasant soil !
Nor grief, nor care, nor toil.
Nor gloom, nor darksome night;, But every soul shines as the sun,
For God himself gives light. Thy walls are made of precious stone,
Thy bulwarks diamond-square,
O God ! if I were there !
Thy joys when shall I see ? -
And thy felicity ?
If as a flowre doth spread and die, Thou wouldst extend me to some good, Before I were by frost's extremitie
Nipt in the bud, The sweetnesse and the praise were thine ;
But the extension and the room Which in thy garland I should fill were mine
At thy great doom.