THE HERO

My hero is na deck'd 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 plough;
He's rough without, but sound within ;
His heart is bauldly true.

He toils at e'en, 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
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!

THE PEOPLE'S PETITION

O LORDS! O rulers of the nation!
O softly cloth'd! O richly fed !

O men of wealth and noble station!
Give us our daily bread.

For you we are content to toil,
For you our blood like rain is shed;
Then, lords and rulers of the soil,
Give us our daily bread.

Your silken robes, with endless care,
Still weave we; still uncloth'd, unfed,
We make the raiment that ye wear:
Give us our daily bread.

In the red forge-light do we stand,
We early leave- late seek our bed,
Tempering the steel for your right hand :
Give us our daily bread.

We sow your fields, ye reap the fruit
We live in misery and in dread;
Hear but our prayer, and we are mute :
Give us our daily bread.

Throughout old England's pleasant fields
There is no spot where we may tread,
No house to us sweet shelter yields:
Give us our daily bread.

SUMMER DAYS

IN summer, when the days were long, We walk'd, two friends, in field and wood;

Our heart was light, our step was strong, And life lay round us, fair as good,

In summer, when the days were long.

We stray'd from morn till evening came,
We gather'd flowers, and wove us crowns ;
We walk'd mid poppies red as flame,
Or sat upon the yellow downs,
And always wish'd our life the same.

In summer, when the days were long,
We leap'd the hedgerow, cross'd the brook
And still her voice flow'd forth in song,
Or else she read some graceful book,
In summer, when the days were long.

And then we sat beneath the trees,
With shadows lessening in the noon;
And in the sunlight and the breeze
We revell'd, many a glorious June,
While larks were singing o'er the leas.

In summer, when the days were long,
We pluck'd wild strawberries, ripe and
red,

Or feasted, with no grace but song,
On golden nectar, snow-white bread,
In summer, when the days were long.

We lov'd, and yet we knew it not,
For loving seem'd like breathing then ;
We found a heaven in every spot;
Saw angels, too, in all good men,
And dream'd of gods in grove and grot.

In summer, when the days are long,
Alone I wander, muse alone;

I see her not, but that old song
Under the fragrant wind is blown,
In summer, when the days are long.

Alone I wander in the wood,
But one fair spirit hears my sighs;
And half I see the crimson hood,
The radiant hair, the calm glad eyes,
That charm'd me in life's summer mood.

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