| |
| MY hero is na deck’d wi’ gowd, | |
| He has nae glittering state; | |
| Renown upon a field o’ blood | |
| In war he hasna met. | |
| He has nae siller in his pouch, | 5 |
| Nae menials at his ca’; | |
| The proud o’ earth frae him would turn, | |
| And bid him stand awa’. | |
| |
| His coat is hame-spun hodden-gray, | |
| His shoon are clouted sair, | 10 |
| His garments, maist unhero-like, | |
| Are a’ the waur o’ wear: | |
| His limbs are strong—his shoulders broad, | |
| His hands were made to plough; | |
| He ’s rough without, but sound within; | 15 |
| His heart is bauldly true. | |
| |
| He toils at e’en, he toils at morn, | |
| His wark is never through; | |
| A coming life o’ weary toil | |
| Is ever in his view. | 20 |
| But on he trudges, keeping aye | |
| A stout heart to the brae, | |
| And proud to be an honest man | |
| Until his dying day. | |
| |
| His hame a hame o’ happiness | 25 |
| And kindly love may be; | |
| And monie a nameless dwelling-place | |
| Like his we still may see. | |
| His happy altar-hearth so bright | |
| Is ever bleezing there; | 30 |
| And cheerfu’ faces round it set | |
| Are an unending prayer. | |
| |
| The poor man in his humble hame, | |
| Like God, who dwells aboon, | |
| Makes happy hearts around him there, | 35 |
| Sae joyfu’ late and soon. | |
| His toil is sair, his toil is lang; | |
| But weary nights and days, | |
| Hame—happiness akin to his— | |
| A hunder-fauld repays. | 40 |
| |
| Go, mock at conquerors and kings! | |
| What happiness give they? | |
| Go, tell the painted butterflies | |
| To kneel them down and pray! | |
| Go, stand erect in manhood’s pride, | 45 |
| Be what a man should be, | |
| Then come, and to my hero bend | |
| Upon the grass your knee! | |
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