THE BLIND GIRL

In the darkness, who would answer for the color of a rose, Or the vestments of the May moth and the pilgrimage it goes.

In the darkness who would answer, in the darkness who would care,

If the odor of the roses and the wingèd things were there.

In the darkness who would cavil o'er the question of a line, Since the darkness holds all loveliness, beyond the mere design.

Oh night, thy soothing prophecies companion all our ways, Until releasing hands let fall the catalogue of days.

In the darkness, who would answer for the color of a rose, Or the vestments of the May moth and the pilgrimage it goes.

In the darkness who would answer, in the darkness who would care,

If the odor of the roses and the better things were there. - Nathalia Crane

THE ODD ONES

I like best those crotchety ones

That follow their own way

In whimsical oblivion

Of what the neighbors say.

They grow more rare as they grow old
Their lives show in their faces

In little slants and twisted lines;

Like trees in lonely places.

Ruth Suckow

I'm a lean dog, a keen dog, a wild dog, and lone;
I'm a rough dog, a tough dog, hunting on my own;
I'm a bad dog, a mad dog, teasing silly sheep;

I love to sit and bay the moon, to keep fat souls from sleep.

I'll never be a lap dog, licking dirty feet,

A sleek dog, a meek dog, cringing for my meat,

Not for me the fireside, the well-filled plate,

But shut door, and sharp stone, and cuff and kick, and hate.

Not for me the other dogs, running by my side,

Some have run a short while, but none of them would bide.
O mine is still the lone trail, the hard trail, the best,
Wide wind, and wild stars, and hunger of the quest!

- Irene Rutherford McLeod

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 toils obscure, and a' that;
The rank is but the guinea's stamp,
The man's the gowd for a' that.

What tho' on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hodden grey, 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, tho' 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?
Tho' hundreds worship at his word,
He's but a cuif for a' that.

For a' that, and a' that,

His ribband, 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 mauna fa' that!

For a' that, and a' that,

Their dignities, and 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,
May bear the gree, and a' that!

For a' that, and a' that,

It's comin yet, for a' that,

That man to man, the world o'er,

Shall brithers be for a' that.

- Robert Burns

MCPHERSON'S FAREWELL

Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong,
The wretch's destinie!
M'Pherson's time will not be long
On yonder gallows-tree.

CHORUS

Sae rantingly, sae wantonly,

Sae dauntingly gaed he;

He play'd a spring, and danced it round,
Below the gallows-tree.

O what is death but parting breath?
On many a bloody plain

I've dar'd his face; and in this place
I scorn him yet again!

Untie these bands from off my hands,
And bring to me my sword,

And there's no a man in all Scotland,
But I'll brave him at a word.

I've liv'd a life of sturt and strife;
I die by treacherie:

It burns my heart I must depart,

And not avengèd be.

Now farewell light, thou sunshine bright,

And all beneath the sky!

May coward shame distain his name,
The wretch that dare not die!

ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE PLOUGH, NOVEMBER, 1785

Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie,

O, what a panic 's in thy breastie!

Thou need na start awa sae hasty,

Wi' bickering brattle!

I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee,
Wi' murd'ring prattle!

I'm truly sorry man's dominion

Has broken Nature's social union,

An' justifies that ill opinion

Which makes thee startle

At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,
An' fellow-mortal!