For a' That and a' That
1 Is there, for honest poverty,
2 That hings his head, an' a' that?
3 The coward slave, we pass him by,
4 We dare be poor for a' that!
5 For a' that, an' a' that,
6 Our toils obscure, an' a' that;
7 The rank is but the guinea's stamp;
8 The man's the gowd for a' that,
9 What tho' on hamely fare we dine,
10 Wear hoddin-gray, an' a' that;
11 Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,
12 A man's a man for a' that.
13 For a' that, an' a' that,
14 Their tinsel show an' a' that;
15 The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor,
16 Is king o' men for a' that.
17 Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord
18 Wha struts, an' stares, an' a' that;
19 Tho' hundreds worship at his word,
20 He's but a coof for a' that:
21 For a' that, an' a' that,
22 His riband, star, an' a' that,
23 The man o' independent mind,
24 He looks and laughs at a' that.
25 A prince can mak a belted knight,
26 A marquis, duke, an' a' that;
27 But an honest man's aboon his might,
28 Guid faith he mauna fa' that!
29 For a' that, an' a' that,
30 Their dignities, an' a' that,
31 The pith o' sense, an' pride o' worth,
32 Are higher rank than a' that.
33 Then let us pray that come it may,
34 As come it will for a' that,
35 That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth,
36 May bear the gree, an' a' that.
37 For a' that, an' a' that,
38 It's coming yet, for a' that,
39 That man to man, the warld o'er,
40 Shall brothers be for a' that.
poem by Robert Burns
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Related quotes
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 hodden grey, an' a that;
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine;
A Man's a Man for a' that:
For a' that, and 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 coof 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 abon his might,
Gude faith, he maunna 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 coming yet for a' that,
That Man to Man, the world o'er,
Shall brothers be for a' that.
poem by Robert Burns
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Poet And Peer
They asked the Bard of Ayr to dine;
The banquet hall was fit and fine,
With gracing it a Lord;
The poet came; his face was grim
To find the place reserved for him
Was at the butler's board.
So when the gentry called him in,
He entered with a knavish grin
And sipped a glass of wine;
But when they asked would he recite
Something of late he'd chanced to write
He ettled to decline.
Then with a sly, sardonic look
He opened up a little book
Containing many a gem;
And as they sat in raiment fine,
So smug and soused with rosy wine,
This verse he read to them.
'You see yon birkie caw'ed a Lord,
Who struts and stares an' a' that,
Though hundreds worship at his word
He's but a coof for a' that.
For a' that and a' that,
A man's a man for a' that.
He pointed at that portly Grace
Who glared with apoplectic face,
While others stared with gloom;
Then having paid them all he owed,
Burns, Bard of Homespun, smiled and strode
Superbly from the room.
poem by Robert William Service
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Poor Honest Men
(A.D. 1800)
Your jar of Virginny
Will cost you a guinea,
Which you reckon too much by five shillings or ten;
But light your churchwarden
And judge it according,
When I've told you the troubles of poor honest men.
From the Capes of the Delaware,
As you are well aware,
We sail which tobacco for England-but then,
Our own British cruisers,
They watch us come through, sirs,
And they press half a score of us poor honest men!
Or if by quick sailing
(Thick weather prevailing )
We leave them behind ( as we do now and then)
We are sure of a gun from
Each frigate we run from,
Which is often destruction to poor honest men!
Broadsides the Atlantic
We tumble short-handed,
With shot-holes to plug and new canvas to bend;
And off the Azores,
Dutch, Dons and Monsieurs
Are waiting to terrify poor honest men.
Napoleon's embargo
Is laid on all cargo
Which comfort or aid to King George may intend;
And since roll, twist and leaf,
Of all comforts is chief,
They try for to steal it from poor honest men!
With no heart for fight,
We take refuge in flight,
But fire as we run, our retreat to defend;
Until our stern-chasers
Cut up her fore-braces,
And she flies off the wind from us poor honest men!
'Twix' the Forties and Fifties,
South-eastward the drift is,
And so, when we think we are making Land's End
Alas, it is Ushant
With half the King's Navy
Blockading French ports against poor honest men!
But they may not quit station
(Which is our salvation )
So swiftly we stand to the Nor'ard again;
And finding the tail of
A homeward-bound convoy,
We slip past the Scillies like poor honest men.
'Twix' the Lizard and Dover,
We hand our stuff over,
Though I may not inform how we do it, nor when.
But a light on each quarter,
Low down on the water,
Is well understanded by poor honest men.
Even then we have dangers,
From meddlesome strangers,
Who spy on our business and are not content
To take a smooth answer,
Except with a handspike . . .
And they say they are murdered by poor honest men!
To be drowned or be shot
Is our natural lot,
Why should we, moreover, be hanged in the end---
After all our great pains
For to dangle in chains
As though we were smugglers, not poor honest men?
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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To E-
Let Folly smile, to view the names
Of thee and me in friendship twined;
Yet Virtue will have greater claims
To love, than rank with vice combined.
And though unequal is thy fate,
Since title deck’d my higher birth!
Yet envy not this gaudy state;
Thine is the pride of modest worth.
Our souls at least congenial meet,
Nor can thy lot my rank disgrace;
Our intercourse is not less sweet,
Since worth of rank supplies the place.
poem by Byron (1802)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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To E
Let Folly smile, to view the names
Of thee and me in friendship twined;
Yet Virtue will have greater claims
To love, than rank with vice combined.
And though unequal is thy fate,
Since title deck'd my higher claims
Yet envy not this gaudy state;
Thine is the pride of modest worth.
Our souls at least congenial meet,
Nor can thy lot my rank disgrace;
Our intercourse is not less sweet,
Since worth of rank supplies the place.
November 1802
Ballads on Mr. Heron's Election - Ballad First
Whom will you send to London town,
To Parliament and a' that?
Or wha in a' the country round
The best deserves to fa' that?
For a' that, and a' that,
Thro' Galloway and a' that,
Where is the Laird or belted Knight
The best deserves to fa' that?
Wha sees Kerroughtree's open yett,
(And wha is't never saw that?)
Wha ever wi' Kerroughtree met,
And has a doubt of a' that?
For a' that, and a' that,
Here's Heron yet for a' that!
The independent patriot,
The honest man, and a' that.
Tho' wit and worth, in either sex,
Saint Mary's Isle can shaw that,
Wi' Dukes and Lords let Selkirk mix,
And weel does Selkirk fa' that.
For a' that, and a' that,
Here's Heron yet for a' that!
The independent commoner
Shall be the man for a' that.
But why should we to Nobles jouk,
And is't against the law, that?
For why, a Lord may be a gowk,
Wi' ribband, star and a' that,
For a' that, and a' that,
Here's Heron yet for a' that!
A Lord may be a lousy loun,
Wi' ribband, star and a' that.
A beardless boy comes o'er the hills,
Wi' uncle's purse and a' that;
But we'll hae ane frae mang oursels,
A man we ken, and a' that.
For a' that, and a' that,
Here's Heron yet for a' that!
For we're not to be bought and sold,
Like naigs, and nowt, and a' that.
Then let us drink-The Stewartry,
Kerroughtree's laird, and a' that,
Our representative to be,
For weel he's worthy a' that.
For a' that, and a' that,
Here's Heron yet for a' that!
A House of Commons such as he,
They wad be blest that saw that.
poem by Robert Burns
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Last Of May
By fate's benevolent award,
Should I survive the day,
I'll drink a bumper with my lord
Upon the last of May.
That I may reach that happy time
The kindly gods I pray,
For are not ducks and pease in prime
Upon the last of May?
At thirty boards, 'twixt now and then,
My knife and fork shall play;
But better wine and better men
I shall not meet in May.
And though, good friend, with whom I dine,
Your honest head is gray,
And, like this grizzled head of mine,
Has seen its last of May;
Yet, with a heart that's ever kind,
A gentle spirit gay,
You've spring perennial in your mind,
And round you make a May!
poem by William Makepeace Thackeray
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The Last Of May
By fate's benevolent award,
Should I survive the day,
I'll drink a bumper with my lord
Upon the last of May.
That I may reach that happy time
The kindly gods I pray,
For are not ducks and pease in prime
Upon the last of May?
At thirty boards, 'twixt now and then,
My knife and fork shall play;
But better wine and better men
I shall not meet in May.
And though, good friend, with whom I dine,
Your honest head is gray,
And, like this grizzled head of mine,
Has seen its last of May;
Yet, with a heart that's ever kind,
A gentle spirit gay,
You've spring perennial in your mind,
And round you make a May!
poem by William Makepeace Thackeray
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That's Life One Must Suppose
At the bottom of the social rank and low in self esteem
That's where the haves want to keep the have nots or that's how it does seem
For every new member of the millionaires club there is more poverty
And that people of malnutrition die does not make sense to me,
When many have far more than enough but not enough to satisfy their greed
For them 'twould seem that much wants more that does seem sad indeed
Though some quite wealthy people some of their profits share
Amongst the struggling have nots of the bigger World out there
The social gap keeps widening getting bigger every day
And the poor are getting poorer or so 'twould seem that way
Many hungry and homeless and low in social rank
For the poverty of millions we do have greed to thank
Some have to go for months on end without a change of clothes
And the poor keep getting poorer that's life one must suppose.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Truth or Lie
The Truth
a word of respect
a word of courage at times
hard to define, hard to detect
Showing love
compassion and care
to be honest and humble
to be just and fair
To be right
to be honest above all
to tell the Truth at last
to tell the Truth over all
...But to lie
to show deceit
to be dishonest
or to tel incomplete
To hurt or harm
with words untrue
to say wrong things
that you will rue
To be honest
to tell the Truth always
no shame, no deceit
to be honest always
poem by Kellsey Hartmann
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The honest poor can sometimes forget poverty. The honest rich can never forget it.
quote by G.K. Chesterton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A fool's game
It was a fool's game that should not begin
And you played it without honest rules
If you thought that you will always win
Well it's wrong 'cause it's a game for fools
If you thought that you can get me easy
And you tried to do this without honest rules
If you thought that my way to be is sleazy
Well it's wrong 'cause it's a game for fools
If you thought that you can hunt me slowly
And you danced this without honest rules
If you thought that I will love you only
Well it's wrong 'cause it's a game for fools
It was a morbid dance without real feelings
A dance of wishes without honest rules
If you thought that love means mutual dealings
Well it's wrong 'cause it's a game for fools
If you thought that you will be a winer
In this love fight without honest rules
If you thought I'm a cake at your dinner
Well it's wrong 'cause it's a game for fools
And if you thought you can get everything
In this world of yours without honest rules
If you thought that I'm an easy stupid thing
Well it's wrong 'cause it's a game for fools.
poem by Marieta Maglas
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Honest Men
Were just a stones throw
From burning hellfire
Does anybody know,
Where did all the heroes go?
Weve had our fill of
This gallery of scoundrels,
The leaders of the world,
Those power hungry liars
Rise up and sound the sirens,
Send out the searching powers,
All we need is a few good men
Send the s.o.s. and red alerts
All across the universe
Calling your honest men?
S.o.s. emergency,
Sinking fast and getting worse.
Wheres your honest men?
In some village, far away,
Or in a little town pub.
High on a mountain top
There must be an honest man
Calling all honest men
Throw out the tyrants,
The aged fat cats
Outlived their usefulness
They have led us to this mess
Make them answer,
Hold them to their promises,
And throw them in the street
If they wont tell the truth
S.o.s. and red alert
All across the universe,
Calling all honest men
S.o.s. emergency,
Sinking fast and getting worse,
Wheres your honest men?
To your stations,
Man the ramparts,
The barricades
We need new heroes urgently
We need a few good honest men
Calling all honest men
Calling all honest men
Call to him
He lives next door,
Across the street
On the upper floor.
Its our only hope we need him now
Send the s.o.s. and red alert,
All across the universe,
Calling all honest men
S.o.s. emergency,
Sinking fast and getting worse,
Wheres your honest men
Strike a blow,
Save the ship,
We need a few good honest men
Calling all honest men
Calling all honest men
Calling all honest men
S.o.s. across the universe
Wheres your honest
We need your honest
Calling all honest men
Calling out all over the world,
Wheres your honest men
Looking out all over the world,
We need your honest men
song performed by by Electric Light Orchestra
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Here's A Health To Them That's Awa
Here's a health to them that's awa,
Here's a health to them that's awa
And wha winna wish guid luck to our cause,
May never guid luck be their fa'!
It's guid to be merry and wise,
It's guid to be honest and true,
It's guid to support Caledonia's cause
And bide by the buff and the blue.
Here's a health to them that's awa,
Here's a health to them that's awa!
Here's a health to Charlie, the chief o' the clan,
Altho that his band be sma'!
May Liberty meet wi success,
May Prudence protect her frae evil!
May tyrants and Tyranny tine i' the mist
And wander their way to the Devil!
Here's a health to them that's awa,
Here's a health to them that's awa;
Here's a health to Tammie, the Norlan' laddie,
That lives at the lug o' the Law!
Here's freedom to thern that wad read,
Here's freedom to them that would write!
There's nane ever fear'd that the truth should be heard,
But they whom the truth would indite!
Here's a health to them that's awa,
An here's to them that's awa!
Here's to Maitland and Wycombe! let wha does na like 'em
Be built in a hole in the wa'!
Here's timmer that's red at the heart,
Here's fruit that is sound at the core,
And may he that wad turn the buff and blue coat
Be turn'd to the back o' the door!
Here's a health to them that's awa,
Here's a health to them that's awa,
Here's Chieftain M'Leod, a chieftain worth gowd,
Tho' bred amang mountains o' snaw!
Here's friends on baith sides o' the Firth,
And friends on baith sides o' the Tweed,
And wha wad betray old Albion's right,
May they never eat of her bread!
poem by Robert Burns
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When I got on Stern I realized that this was the one job where you could be really honest and open, almost like Richard Pryor or something. You can be honest about your life and get laughs.
quote by Artie Lange
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Stealing Dignity Poor: A Right To Dignity
roll out legacy
reds under beds
slander attacks
unfounded again
deficit terrorism
scares millions
American citizens
draw economic line
who launches
smear campaigns
to demonize
US intelligentsia
who targets
poor labels;
behavioural
economics?
claims bluntly
emphasizes
poor are lazy
short-sighted
ivy league boys
stealing bankrolls
get off honest
workers backs
give employment;
average IQ poor
is not well below
normal accounts
but for earnings
gap education
degrees do earn
higher salaries
social pathology;
poor are not prone
more to criminal
behavior honest
poor are bedrock
of moral society;
career options
notorious fleeting
crime benefits
white collar crimes
fancy lawyers
buy rich client
freedom Bell Curve
merry propaganda
Frankensteinism
blocks sewer pipes
H&M IQ thesis
non-white poor
discrimination
rhetoric evolved
to any race poor
laid off victim poor
stolen their houses
is not yet enough
greedy robber baron
rich must also steal
a hard poor workers
honour pride dignity
poem by Terence George Craddock
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It All Will Come Out Right
Whatever is a cruel wrong,
Whatever is unjust,
The honest years that speed along
Will trample in the dust.
In restless youth I railed at fate
With all my puny might,
But now I know if I but wait
It all will come out right.
Though Vice may don the judge’s gown
And play the censors’ part,
And Fact be cowed by Falsehood’s frown
And Nature ruled by art;
Though Labour toils through blinding tears
And idle Wealth is might,
I know that the honest, earnest years
Will bring it all out right.
Though poor and loveless creeds may pass
For pure religion’s gold;
Though ignorance may rule the mass
While truth meets glances cold,
I know a law, complete, sublime,
Controls us with its might,
And in God’s own appointed time
It all will come out right.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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The Curse Of The Charter-Breakers
IN Westminster's royal halls,
Robed in their pontificals,
England's ancient prelates stood
For the people's right and good.
Closed around the waiting crowd,
Dark and still, like winter's cloud;
King and council, lord and knight,
Squire and yeoman, stood in sight;
Stood to hear the priest rehearse,
In God's name, the Church's curse,
By the tapers round them lit,
Slowly, sternly uttering it.
'Right of voice in framing laws,
Right of peers to try each cause;
Peasant homestead, mean and small,
Sacred as the monarch's hall, —
'Whoso lays his hand on these,
England's ancient liberties;
Whoso breaks, by word or deed,
England's vow at Runnymede;
'Be he Prince or belted knight,
Whatsoe'er his rank or might,
If the highest, then the worst,
Let him live and die accursed.
'Thou, who to Thy Church hast given
Keys alike, of hell and heaven,
Make our word and witness sure,
Let the curse we speak endure!'
Silent, while that curse was said,
Every bare and listening head
Bowed in reverent awe, and then
All the people said, Amen!
Seven times the bells have tolled,
For the centuries gray and old,
Since that stoled and mitred band
Cursed the tyrants of their land.
Since the priesthood, like a tower,
Stood between the poor and power;
And the wronged and trodden down
Blessed the abbot's shaven crown.
Gone, thank God, their wizard spell,
Lost, their keys of heaven and hell;
Yet I sigh for men as bold
As those bearded priests of old.
Now, too oft the priesthood wait
At the threshold of the state;
Waiting for the beck and nod
Of its power as law and God.
Fraud exults, while solemn words
Sanctify his stolen hoards;
Slavery laughs, while ghostly lips
Bless his manacles and whips.
Not on them the poor rely,
Not to them looks liberty,
Who with fawning falsehood cower
To the wrong, when clothed with power.
Oh, to see them meanly cling,
Round the master, round the king,
Sported with, and sold and bought, —
Pitifuller sight is not!
Tell me not that this must be:
God's true priest is always free;
Free, the needed truth to speak,
Right the wronged, and raise the weak.
Not to fawn on wealth and state,
Leaving Lazarus at the gate;
Not to peddle creeds like wares;
Got to mutter hireling prayers;
Nor to paint the new life's bliss
On the sable ground of this;
Golden streets for idle knave,
Sabbath rest for weary slave!
Not for words and works like these,
Priest of God, thy mission is;
But to make earth's desert glad,
In its Eden greenness clad;
And to level manhood bring
Lord and peasant, serf and king;
And the Christ of God to find
In the humblest of thy kind!.
Thine to work as well as pray,
Clearing thorny wrongs away;
Plucking up the weeds of sin,
Letting heaven's warm sunshine in;
Watching on the hills of Faith.;
Listening what the spirit saith,
Of the dim-seen light afar,
Growing like a nearing star.
God's interpreter art thou,
To the waiting ones below;
'Twixt them and its light midway
Heralding the better day;
Catching gleams of temple spires,
Hearing notes of angel choirs,
Where, as yet unseen of them,
Comes the New Jerusalem!
Like the seer of Patmos gazing,
On the glory downward blazing;
Till upon Earth's grateful sod
Rests the City of our God!
--
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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My Sort O' Man
I don't believe in 'ristercrats
An' never did, you see;
The plain ol' homelike sorter folks
Is good enough fur me.
O' course, I don't desire a man
To be too tarnal rough,
But then, I think all folks should know
When they air nice enough.
Now there is folks in this here world,
From peasant up to king,
Who want to be so awful nice
They overdo the thing.
That's jest the thing that makes me sick,
An' quicker 'n a wink
I set it down that them same folks
Ain't half so good 's you think.
I like to see a man dress nice,
In clothes becomin' too;
I like to see a woman fix
As women orter to do;
An' boys an' gals I like to see
Look fresh an' young an' spry.--
We all must have our vanity
An' pride before we die.
But I jedge no man by his clothes,--
Nor gentleman nor tramp;
The man that wears the finest suit
May be the biggest scamp,
An' he whose limbs air clad in rags
That make a mournful sight,
In life's great battle may have proved
A hero in the fight.
I don't believe in 'ristercrats;
I like the honest tan
That lies upon the healthful cheek
An' speaks the honest man;
I like to grasp the brawny hand
That labor's lips have kissed,
For he who has not labored here
Life's greatest pride has missed:
The pride to feel that yore own strength
Has cleaved fur you the way
To heights to which you were not born,
But struggled day by day.
What though the thousands sneer an' scoff,
An' scorn yore humble birth?
Kings are but puppets; you are king
By right o' royal worth.
The man who simply sits an' waits
Fur good to come along,
Ain't worth the breath that one would take
To tell him he is wrong.
Fur good ain't flowin' round this world
Fur every fool to sup;
You 've got to put yore see-ers on,
An' go an' hunt it up.
Good goes with honesty, I say,
To honour an' to bless;
To rich an' poor alike it brings
A wealth o' happiness.
The 'ristercrats ain't got it all,
Fur much to their su'prise,
That's one of earth's most blessed things
They can't monopolize.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Upon The Altar Of My Lord
I offer my words up freely,
upon the altar of my God.
I come to this sacred place freely,
of my own free will to serve to pray.
This ancient sacred place this land,
this holy sacred God given ground;
is where in my humble veneration,
in worship I lay my offering down.
I have nothing more; to humbly offer pray.
I have while materially poor nothing more,
than time of value worth to humbly offer pray;
this is all I have I here in true worship bore,
I offer before my most high my sacred Lord.
Near on thirty years ago, I made this sacred vow,
with my soul heart head, bowed in breath low;
though my flesh remains, be still struggle weak,
this vow before God in worship I honour keep.
I thank my wondrous Lord, who let me humbly come here pray.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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