A proud heart in a poor breast, has meikle dolour to dree.
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For A' That
Tho' women's minds, like winter winds,
May shift, and turn, an' a' that,
The noblest breast adores them maist-
A consequence I draw that.
For a' that, an' a' that,
And twice as meikle's a' that;
The bonie lass that I loe best
She'll be my ain for a' that.
Great love I bear to a' the fair,
Their humble slave, an' a' that;
But lordly will, I hold it still
A mortal sin to thraw that.
For a' that, an' a' that,
And twice as meikle's a' that;
The bonie lass that I loe best
She'll be my ain for a' that.
But there is ane aboon the lave,
Has wit, and sense, an' a' that;
A bonie lass, I like her best,
And wha a crime dare ca' that?
For a' that, an' a' that,
And twice as meikle's a' that;
The bonie lass that I loe best
She'll be my ain for a' that.
In rapture sweet this hour we meet,
Wi' mutual love an' a' that,
But for how lang the flie may stang,
Let inclination law that.
For a' that, an' a' that,
And twice as meikle's a' that;
The bonie lass that I loe best
She'll be my ain for a' that.
Their tricks an' craft hae put me daft.
They've taen me in, an' a' that;
But clear your decks, and here's-"The Sex!"
I like the jads for a' that.
For a' that, an' a' that,
And twice as meikle's a' that;
The bonie lass that I loe best
She'll be my ain for a' that.
poem by Robert Burns
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Dolour Of The Human
Dolour of youth heartaches the world,
With so much flesh and bones that crack.
My mount especially found the raise
Of youth, the significant blush, and one to reclaim.
The dolour of the intermediate stage
Of human suffering and age created a coup d’etat,
To shorten the phrase, a blameworthy man is not woman,
Sudden plucking of feathers are for the birds, not words.
Dolour of old age make homo sapiens a master race,
As bold as nature itself, then this dolour of youth is final.
To improve one’s land is like the garden for the gardener,
And dolour of human strength resides in all ages.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Willie's Ladye
Willie has ta'en him o'er the faem,
He's wooed a wife, and brought her hame;
He's wooed her for her yellow hair,
But his mother wrought her meikle care;
And meikle dolour gar'd her dree,
For lighter she can never be;
But in her bow'r she sits with pain,
And Willie mourns o'er her in vain.
And to his mother he has gane,
That vile rank witch, of vilest kind!
He says--'My lady has a cup,
With gowd and silver set about;
This gudely gift shall be your ain,
And let her be lighter of her bairn.'
'Of her bairn she's never be lighter,
Nor in her bow'r to shine the brighter
But she shall die, and turn to clay,
And you shall wed another may.'
'Another may I'll never wed,
Another may I'll never bring hame.'
But, sighing, said that weary wight--
'I wish my life were at an end.'
'Yet gae ye to your mother again,
That vile rank witch, of vilest kind
And say, your ladye has a steed,
The like of him's no in the land of Leed.
'For he is silver shod before,
And he is gowden shod behind;
At every tuft of that horse mane
There's a golden chess, and a bell to ring.
This gudely gift shall be her ain,
And let me be lighter of my bairn.'
'Of her young bairn she's ne'er be lighter,
Nor in her bow'r to shine the brighter;
But she shall die, and turn to clay,
And ye shall wed another may.'
'Another may I'll never wed,
Another may I'll never bring hame.'
But, sighing, said that weary wight--
I wish my life were at an end!'
'Yet gae ye to your mother again,
That vile rank witch, of rankest kind!
And say, your ladye has a girdle,
It's all red gowd to the middle;
'And aye, at ilka siller hem,
Hang fifty siller bells and ten;
This gudely gift shall be her ain,
And let me be lighter of my bairn.'
'Of her young bairn she's ne'er be lighter,
Nor in your bow'r to shine the brighter;
For she shall die, and turn to clay,
And thou shall wed another may.'
'Another may I'll never wed,
Another may I'll never bring hame.'
But, sighing, said that weary wight--
'I wish my days were at an end!'
Then out and spak the Billy Blind,
He spak aye in good time [his mind]:-
'Yet gae ye to the market place,
And there do buy a loaf of wace;
Do shape it bairn and bairnly like,
And in it two glassen een you'll put.
'Oh, wha has loosed the nine witch-knots
That were amang that ladye's locks?
And wha's ta'en out the kames of care,
That were amang that ladye's hair?
'And wha has ta'en down that bush of woodbine
That hung between her bow'r and mine?
And wha has kill'd the master kid
That ran beneath that ladye's bed?
And wha has loosed her left foot shee,
And let that ladye lighter be?'
Syne, Willie's loosed the nine witch-knots
That were amang that ladye's locks;
And Willie's ta'en out the kames of care
That were into that ladye's hair;
And he's ta'en down the bush of woodbine,
Hung atween her bow'r and the witch carline.
And he has killed the master kid
That ran beneath that ladye's bed;
And he has loosed her left foot shee,
And latten that ladye lighter be;
And now he has gotten a bonnie son,
And meikle grace be him upon.
poem by Andrew Lang
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Aaron
Holiness on the head,
Light and perfection on the breast,
Harmonious bells below, raising the dead
To led them unto life and rest.
Thus are true Aarons dressed.
Profaneness in my head,
Defects and darkness in my breast,
A noise of passions ringing me for dead
Unto a place where is no rest.
Poor priest thus am I dressed.
Only another head
I have, another heart and breast,
another music, making live not dead,
without whom I could have no rest:
In him I am well dressed.
Christ is my only head,
My alone only heart and breast,
My only music, striking me even dead;
That to the old man I may rest,
And be in him new dressed.
So holy in my head,
Perfect and light in my dear breast,
My doctrine tuned by Christ, (who is not dead,
But lives in me while I do rest)
Come people; Aaron's dressed.
poem by George Herbert
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Im So Proud
Youre prettier than all the world
And Im so proud, Im so proud, Im so proud of you
cause youre only one fellows girl
Im so proud, Im so proud, Im so proud of you
Im so proud of being loved by you
And it would hurt, hurt to know,
If you ever were untrue, yeah
Sweeter than the taste of a cherry so sweet
Yeah, and Im so proud, Im so proud,
Im so proud of you
Compliments to you from all the people we meet
Yes babe and Im so proud, Im so proud,
Im so proud of you
Im so proud of being loved by you
song performed by by Todd Rundgren
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Loose Saraband
I.
Ah me! the little tyrant theefe!
As once my heart was playing,
He snatcht it up and flew away,
Laughing at all my praying.
II.
Proud of his purchase, he surveys
And curiously sounds it,
And though he sees it full of wounds,
Cruel one, still he wounds it.
III.
And now this heart is all his sport,
Which as a ball he boundeth
From hand to breast, from breast to lip,
And all its rest confoundeth.
IV.
Then as a top he sets it up,
And pitifully whips it;
Sometimes he cloathes it gay and fine,
Then straight againe he strips it.
V.
He cover'd it with false reliefe,
Which gloriously show'd it;
And for a morning-cushionet
On's mother he bestow'd it.
VI.
Each day, with her small brazen stings,
A thousand times she rac'd it;
But then at night, bright with her gemmes,
Once neere her breast she plac'd it.
VII.
There warme it gan to throb and bleed;
She knew that smart, and grieved;
At length this poore condemned heart
With these rich drugges repreeved.
VIII.
She washt the wound with a fresh teare,
Which my LUCASTA dropped,
And in the sleave-silke of her haire
'Twas hard bound up and wrapped.
IX.
She proab'd it with her constancie,
And found no rancor nigh it;
Only the anger of her eye
Had wrought some proud flesh by it.
X.
Then prest she narde in ev'ry veine,
Which from her kisses trilled;
And with the balme heald all its paine,
That from her hand distilled.
XI.
But yet this heart avoyds me still,
Will not by me be owned;
But's fled to its physitian's breast;
There proudly sits inthroned.
poem by Richard Lovelace
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The Dreaming
bang! goes another kanga
On the bonnet of the van.
See the light ram through the gaps in the land.
Many an aborigines mistaken for a tree
til you near him on the motorway
And the tree begin to breathe.
See the light ram through the gaps in the land.
(ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha)
Coming in with the golden light
In the morning.
Coming in with the golden light
Is the new man.
Coming in with the golden light
Is my dented van.
Woomera.
Dree-ee-ee-ee-ee-
A-a-a-a-a-
M-m-m-m-m-
Ti-ti-ti-ti-ti-
I-i-i-i-i-
Me-me-me-me-me,
Dree-ee-ee-ee-ee-
Woomera.
A-a-a-a-a-
M-m-m-m-m-
Ti-ti-ti-ti-ti-
I-i-i-i-i-
Me-me-me-me-me.
Dree-ee-ee-ee-ee-
A-a-a-a-a-
M-m-m-m-m-
Ti-ti-ti-ti-ti-
The civilised keep alive
The territorial war.
See the light ram through the gaps in the land.
Erase the race that claim the place
And say we dig for ore,
Or dangle devils in a bottle
And push them from the pull of the bush.
See the light ram through the gaps in the land.
You find them in the road.
See the light bounce off the rocks to the sand.
In the road.
Coming in with the golden light
In the morning.
Coming in with the golden light
With no warning.
Coming in with the golden light
We bring in the rigging.
Dig, dig, dig, dig away.
Dree-ee-ee-ee-ee-
A-a-a-a-a-
M-m-m-m-m-
Ti-ti-ti-ti-ti-
I-i-i-i-i-
Me-me-me-me-me,
Dree-ee-ee-ee-ee-
Woomera.
A-a-a-a-a-
M-m-m-m-m-
Ti-ti-ti-ti-ti-
I-i-i-i-i-
Me-me-me,
Dree-ee-ee-ee-ee-
A-a-a-a-a-
M-m-m-m-m-
Woomera.
Ti-ti-ti-ti-ti-
I-i-i-i-i-
Me-me-me-me-me,
Dree-ee-ee-ee-ee-
A-a-a-a-a-
M-m-m-m-m-
Ti-ti-ti-ti-ti-
I-i-i-i-i-
Woomera.
Me-me-me-me-me.
Ma-ma-many an aborigines mistaken for a tree
(la, la, oo-ooh!)
See the light ram through the gaps in the land.
You near him on the motorway
And the tree begin to breathe.
Erase the race that claim the place
And say we dig for ore.
See the light ram through the gaps in the land.
Dangle devils in a bottle
And push them from the pull of the bush.
See the sun set in the hand of the man.
Bang! goes another kanga
On the bonnet of the van.
See the light bounce off the rocks to the sand.
You find them in the road.
See the light ram through the gaps in the land.
In the road.
See the light.
(push em from the)
Pull of the bush.
See the light bounce off the rocks to the sand.
(push em from the)
Pull of the bush.
See the sun set in the hand of the man.
(oh, re mikayina!)
song performed by by Kate Bush
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Poor
God is with the poor
But do the poor know God is with them?
As they look out from the crowd
Lost in their 'man made prison'
God is with the poor
But do the poor know God is with them?
As they look up to the proud
Who looks back with derision
And who can tell the poor that God is with them?
He who paints angel wings on ragged backs?
Makes hungry mouths sing for their supper
He who nothing lacks?
Who poorer still can say God is with us?
When homeless turn away from too much fuss
But God is with them
Is he with us?
And poorer still in having more
But never having too much
Who can say then God is with us?
yvette smith
poem by Yvette Smith
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Braggart
someday i will be poor.
it will happen, someday i will be very poor.
and you will be rich, and happy and proud
and influential and famous
and be in the cover of Forbes Magazine
perhaps Times
for your exemplary charity
or Asia week for your nobility
and humanitarian projects
perhaps the Pope will make you Saint Marjorie
someday i will be poor, in fact, poor as the poorest rat,
but i know
i will still, and cannot still love you real.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Gentlest Lady
They say He was a serious child,
And quiet in His ways;
They say the gentlest lady smiled
To hear the neighbors' praise.
The coffers of her heart would close
Upon their smaliest word.
Yet did they say, "How tall He grows!"
They thought she had not heard.
They say upon His birthday eve
She'd rock Him to His rest
As if she could not have Him leave
The shelter of her breast.
The poor must go in bitter thrift,
The poor must give in pain,
But ever did she get a gift
To greet His day again.
They say she'd kiss the Boy awake,
And hail Him gay and clear,
But oh, her heart was like to break
To count another year.
poem by Dorothy Parker
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Born poor, but of honored and humble people, I am particularly proud to die poor.
quote by Pope John XXIII
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Traditionary Version
As I came in by Dunidier,
An doun by Netherha,
There was fifty thousand Hielanmen
A marching to Harlaw.
(Chorus) Wi a dree dree dradie drumtie dree.
As I cam on, an farther on,
An doun an by Balquhain,
Oh there I met Sir James the Rose,
Wi him Sir John the Gryme.
'O cam ye frae the Hielans, man?
And cam ye a' the wey?
Saw ye Macdonell an his men,
As they cam frae the Skee?'
'Yes, me cam frae ta Hielans, man,
An me cam a ta wey,
An she saw Macdonell an his men,
As they cam frae ta Skee.'
'Oh, was ye near Macdonell's men?
Did ye their numbers see?
Come, tell to me, John Hielanman,
What micht their numbers be?'
'Yes, me was near, an near eneuch,
An me their numbers saw;
There was fifty thousand Hielanmen
A marching to Harlaw.'
'Gin that be true,' says James the Rose,
'We'll no come meikle speed;
We'll cry upo our merry men,
And lichtly mount our steed.'
'Oh no, oh no!' quo' John the Gryme,
'That thing maun never be;
The gallant Grymes were never bate,
We'll try what we can dee.'
As I cam on, an farther on,
An doun an by Harlaw,
They fell fu close on ilka side;
Sic fun ye never saw.
They fell fu close on ilka side,
Sic fun ye never saw;
For Hielan swords gied clash for clash,
At the battle o Harlaw.
The Hielanmen, wi their lang swords,
They laid on us fu sair,
An they drave back our merry men
Three acres breadth an mair.
Brave Forbes to his brither did say,
'Noo brither, dinna ye see?
They beat us back on ilka side,
An we'se be forced to flee.'
'Oh no, oh no, my brither dear,
That thing maun never be;
Tak ye your good sword in your hand,
An come your wa's wi me.'
'Oh no, oh no, my brither dear,
The clans they are ower strang,
An they drive back our merry men,
Wi swords baith sharp an lang.'
Brave Forbes drew his men aside,
Said, 'Tak your rest a while,
Until I to Drumminnor send,
To fess my coat o mail.'
The servan he did ride,
An his horse it did na fail,
For in twa hours an a quarter
He brocht the coat o mail.
Then back to back the brithers twa
Gaed in amo the thrang,
An they hewed doun the Hielanmen,
Wi swords baith sharp an lang.
Macdonell he was young an stout,
Had on his coat o mail,
And he has gane oot throw them a'
To try his han himsell.
The first ae straik that Forbes strack,
He garrt Macdonell reel;
An the neist ae straik that Forbes strack,
The great Macdonell fell.
And siccan a lierachie,
I'm sure ye never sawe
As wis amo the Hielanmen,
When they saw Macdonell fa.
An whan they saw that he was deid,
They turnd and ran awa,
An they buried him in Legget's Den,
A large mile frae Harlaw.
They rade, they ran, an some did gang,
They were o sma record;
But Forbes and his merry men,
They slew them a' the road.
On Monanday, at mornin,
The battle it began,
On Saturday at gloamin',
Ye'd scarce kent wha had wan.
An sic a weary buryin,
I'm sure ye never saw,
As wis the Sunday after that,
On the muirs aneath Harlaw.
Gin anybody speer at ye
For them ye took awa,
Ye may tell their wives and bairnies,
They're sleepin at Harlaw.
poem by Andrew Lang
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Dree out the inch when ye have thoi'd the span.
Holy Sonnet 3
O! might those sighs and tears return again
Into my breast and eyes, which I have spent,
That I might in this holy discontent
Mourn with some fruit, as I have mourn'd in vain.
In mine Idolatry what showers of rain
Mine eyes did waste? what griefs my heart did rent?
That sufferance was my sin, I now repent;
'Cause I did suffer, I must suffer pain.
Th' hydroptic drunkard, and night-scouting thief,
The itchy lecher, and self-tickling proud
Have the remembrance of past joys, for relief
Of coming ills. To poor me is allow'd
No ease; for long, yet vehement grief hath been
Th' effect and cause, the punishment and sin.
poem by John Donne from Holy Sonnets
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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