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Well, man is really after a',
A strange mysterious fallow,
Just now he's soaring like a god—
Anon he's sprawling on the sod,
And in the mud he'll wallow.

Some paint him pure as charity,
And some as black's a craw,
But as for me, I think they're right,
Wha make him neither black nor white,
But just between the two.

For O! the very warst o' folk,
Hae something that is good,
And when they gang a bit aglee,
Let's mind that neither you nor me,
Are better than we should.

To point the faults o' others out,
Is labour worse than vain,
If we would make the world true,
The first thing that we ought to do,
Is to find out our ain.

'Tis but the good we do on earth,
That aye rewards the doing,
And oh! it matters not a whit,
Tho' we should ne'er get cash for it,
'Twill live when earth's a ruin.

I ken there's some philosophers,
Wha would try to confute us,
And tell us that when once we die,
When in the silent grave we lie,
There is nae mair about us.

That's comfort for you, is it not 1
Ye weary sons of sorrow,
Upon this long and weary night,
Shall never, never dawn the light,
Of a diviner morrow.

Well if that we're but born to die,
And this poor life is all,
Then Willie—between you and me,
I really canna, canna see,
Why we were born at all.

Or why that nature gave to us,
Affections that we cherish,
And heads to think, and hearts to feel,
If death's on all a final seal,
And like the brutes we perish.

But Willie, lad, I doubt ye'll think,
I've taken to the preaching,
But here in this—our Canada,
That's a puir trade, and doesna pay,
And something waur than teaching.

So now I'll quit this long harangue,
In hopes that when we dee,
There is a place surpassing fair,
Where there is neither cauld nor care,
Reserved for you and me.


Come all ye weary sons of toil,

And listen to my song,
We've eat oppression's bitter bread,

And eat it far too long.

O poverty's a dreadful thing,

Her bite is always keen, Oppression's foot is always shod,

And greed is always mean.

The great, the greasy multitude,
Should neither think nor feel,

They've but to lick the hand that holds
Their noses to the wheel.

ToU may be cheered by sympathy,
And want with love be borne,

But oh! it's terrible to bear
The tyrant's jest and scorn.

O they forget the blood of Knox,

Is running in our veins,
Or that we e'er have listened to

The peasant poet's strains.

O what a joy it is to me,

To hear the blessed strain, Which whispers, I am still a man,

And was not made in vain.

The preachers whom we love the most,

They are the sons of song, The bards, God bless them! never were

Apologists of wrong.

And often when my heart is sad,
When all is dark and drear,

Their glorious melodies will fall,
In rapture on mine ear.

And o'er the dark and troubled sea,

A gleam of hope will dart, And rising from the waves I hail,

Youth's green haunts of the heart.

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