Classic Poem

The braw folk crush the poor folk down,
An' blood an' tears are rinnin' het;
An' meikle ill and meikle wae,
We a' upon the earth have met.
An' falsehood aft comes boldly forth,
And on the throne of truth doth sit;
But true hearts a' — gae work awa' —
We'll mak' the warld better yet!

Though superstition, hand in hand,
W' prejudice — that gruesome hag —
Gangs linkin' still; though misers make
Their heaven o' a siller bag:
Though ignorance, wi' bloody hand,
Is tryin slavery's bonds to knit —
Put knee to knee, ye bold an' free,
We'll mak' the warld better yet!

See yonder cooff wha becks an' bows
To yonder fool wha's ca'd a lord:
See yonder gowd-bedizzen'd wight —
Yon fopling o' the bloodless sword.
Baith slave, an' lord, an' soldier too,
Maun honest grow, or quickly flit;
For freemen a', baith grit an' sma', —
We'll mak' the warld better yet!

Yon dreamer tells us o' a land
He frae his airy brain hath made —
A land where truth and honesty
Have crushed the serpent falsehood's head.
But by the names o' love and joy,
An' common-sense, and lear an' wit,
Put back to back, — and in a crack
We'll mak' our warld better yet!

The knaves and fools may rage and storm,
The growling bigot may deride —
The trembling slave away may rin,
And in his tyrant's dungeon hide;
But free and bold, and true and good,
Unto this oath their seal have set —
" Frae pole to pole we'll free ilk soul, —
The warld shall be better yet! "