She said that neither king, nor prince, nor lord could live aright,

Until their puissance they did prove, their manhood, and their might,

When manhood shall be matched so, that fear can take no place,

Then weary works make warriors each other to embrace, And leave their force that failèd them; which did consume the rout

That might before have lived their time, their strength and nature out.

Then did she sing, as one that thought no man could her

reprove,

The falling out of faithful friends, renewing is of love.

She said she saw no fish, nor fowl, nor beast within her haunt

That met a stranger in their kind, but could give it a taunt. Since flesh might not endure, but rest must wrath succeed, And force the fight to fall to play, in pasture where they feed,

So noble Nature can well end the work she hath begun; And bridle well that will not cease her tragedy in some. Thus in her song she oft rehearsed, as did her well behove, The falling out of faithful friends, renewing is of love.

"I marvel much, pardy," quoth she, "for to behold the rout,

To see man, woman, boy, and beast, to toss the world about; Some kneel, some crouch, some beck, some check, and some can smoothly smile,

And some embrace others in arms, and there think many a

wile.

Some stand aloof at cap and knee, some humble, and some

stout,

Yet are they never friends in deed, until they once fall out." Thus ended she her song, and said before she did remove, "The falling out of faithful friends, renewing is of love." Richard Edwards [1523?-1566]

QUA CURSUM VENTUS

As ships, becalmed at eve, that lay
With canvas drooping, side by side,
Two towers of sail at dawn of day

Are scarce long leagues apart descried;

When fell the night, upsprung the breeze,
And all the darkling hours they plied,
Nor dreamt but each the self-same seas
By each was cleaving, side by side:

E'en so-but why the tale reveal

Of those, whom year by year unchanged, Brief absence joined anew to feel,

Astounded, soul from soul estranged?

At dead of night their sails were filled,
And onward each rejoicing steered-
Ah, neither blame, for neither willed,

Or wist, what first with dawn appeared!

To veer, how vain! On, onward strain,
Brave barks! In light, in darkness too,
Through winds and tides one compass guides—
To that, and your own selves, be true.

But O blithe breeze! and O great seas,
Though ne'er, that earliest parting past,
On your wide plain they join again,
Together lead them home at last.

One port, methought, alike they sought,
One purpose hold where'er they fare,—

O bounding breeze, O rushing seas!
At last, at last, unite them there!

Arthur Hugh Clough [1819-1861]

"FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT"

Is there, for honest Poverty,

That hangs his head, and a' that!
The coward slave, we pass him by,
We dare be poor for a' that!
For a' that, and a' that,

Our toil's obscure, and 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 hoddin gray, and 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, and a' that;

The honest man, though e'er sae poor,

Is king o' men for a' that.

Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord,

Wha struts, and stares, and a' that; Though hundreds worship at his word, He's but a coof for a' that;

For a' that, and a' that,

His ribbon, star, and a' that; The man o' independent mind, He looks and laughs at a' that.

A prince can mak a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, and a' that;
But an honest man's aboon his might,
Guid faith, he maunna fa' that!

For a' that, and a' that,

Their dignities, and a' that,

The pith o' sense, and 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,

May bear the gree, and a' that.
For a' that, and a' that,

It's coming yet, for a' that,

That Man to Man, the warld o'er,

Shall brothers be for a' that!

Robert Burns [1759-1796]

"WE ARE BRETHREN A'"

A HAPPY bit hame this auld world would be

If men, when they're here, could make shift to agree, An' ilk said to his neebor, in cottage an' ha', "Come, gi'e me your hand, we are brethren a'."

I ken na why ane wi' anither should fight,

When to 'gree would make a' body cosie an' right,
When man meets wi' man, 'tis the best way ava,
To say, "Gi'e me your hand,-we are brethren a'.

My coat is a coarse ane, an' yours may be fine,
And I maun drink water, while you may drink wine;
But we baith ha'e a leal heart, unspotted to shaw:
Sae gi'e me your hand,-
-we are brethren a'.

The knave ye would scorn, the unfaithfu' deride;

Ye would stand like a rock, wi' the truth on your side;

Sae would I, an' naught else would I value a straw:

-we are brethren a'.

Then gi'e me your hand,—

Ye would scorn to do fausely by woman or man;
I haud by the right aye, as well as I can;

We are ane in our joys, our affections, an' a':
Come, gi'e me your hand,-we are brethren a'.

Your mother has lo'ed you as mithers can lo'e;
An' mine has done for me what mithers can do;
We are ane high an' laigh, an' we shouldna be twa:
Sae gi'e me your hand,-we are brethren a',

We love the same simmer day, sunny an' fair; Hame! oh, how we love it, an' a' that are there! Frae the pure air o' heaven the same life we draw: Come, gi'e me your hand, we are brethren a'.

Frail shakin' auld age will soon come o'er us baith,
An' creepin' alang at his back will be death;
Syne into the same mither-yird we will fa':

Come, gi'e me your hand,—

—we are brethren a'.
Robert Nicoll [1814-1837]

FRATERNITY

I KNOW not but in every leaf
That sprang to life along with me,
Were written all the joy and grief
Thenceforth my fate to be.

The wind that whispered to the earth,
The bird that sang its earliest lay,
The flower that blossomed at my birth—
My kinsmen all were they.

Ay, but for fellowship with these

I had not been-nay, might not be;

Nor they but vagrant melodies

Till harmonized by me.

John Banister Tabb [1845-1909]

SONNET

MOST men know love but as a part of life;
They hide it in some corner of the breast,
Even from themselves; and only when they rest
In the brief pauses of that daily strife,
Wherewith the world might else be not so rife,
They draw it forth (as one draws forth a toy
To soothe some ardent, kiss-exacting boy)
And hold it up to sister, child, or wife.