Classic Poem

My hero is na decked 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,
— 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,
His garments, maist unhero-like,
— Are a' the waur o' wear:
His limbs are strong — his shoulders broad,
— His hands were made to plow;
He's rough without, but sound within;
— His heart is bauldly true.

He toils at e'ndash, he toils at morn,
— His wark is never through;
A coming life o' weary toil
— Is ever in his view.
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
— 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;
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,
— 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.

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,
— Be what a man should be,
Then come, and to my hero bend
— Upon the grass your knee!