Classic Poem

The spring is come at last, my freens, cheer up, you sons of toil,
Let the seeds of independence be sown in labour's soil,
And tho' the nipping blast of care should blight your wee bit crop,
Oh dinna let your spirits sink, cling closer aye to hope.

If youth and health be on your side, you ha'e a richer boon
Than him that's dressed in royal robes and wears a diamond crown;
Nae widow's curse lies in your cup, you bear nae orphan's blame;
Nae guilty conscience haunts your dreams wi' visions of the slain.

Tho' light your purse, and worn your coat the darkest hour of night,
Is whiles the very ane that is before it dawns daylight;
And tho' your lot looks unco hard, your future prospects drear,
Hope's sun may burst through sorrow's cloud, your sinking soul to cheer.

The summer's drawing near, my freens, cheer up ye sons of toil,
Let the sun of independence aye greet ye wi' a smile;
His genial beams will light your hearth when it is mirk' wi' care,
When ye ha'e little for to spend, and far less for to spare.

Let him that ne'er kent labour's yoke but come to Glasgow toon,
And let him take a cannie walk her bonny buildings roon,
And let him wi' his lady hands, his cheeks sae pale and wan,
Stand face to face, without a blush, before the Working Man.

But the man who wins fair fortune wi' labour's anxious pain,
He is the man who's justly earned her favour and her fame;
And may he aye keep flourishing wherever he may gang,
And ne'er forget the days now gane when but a Working Man.

The harvest soon will be, my freens, cheer up, you sons of toil,
And the fu'some hand of plenty will store your domicile;
Ye are the sons of nature's art, aye forming some new plan,
Oh what would bonny Scotland do without the Working Man?