Classic Poem

To gather gear is all the rage,
By ony crook or wile;
No legal dodge seems to our age
Intolerably vile.

But ne'er by giving way to greed
True happiness we'll win;
Alas! the maisTo' us hae need
To rein auld Adam in!

To us the money-getting art
Is but the one thing real;
We seldom cherish in our heart
A holy, high ideal.

Alas, alas! to a' beside
Yon puir rich man is blin';
When tempted, never has he tried
To rein auld Adam in.

He never strove to rise above
Mere little paltry pelf;
No, never had he aught to love
Beyond his shabby self!

Poor man, he's always on the hunt
O' profitable sin,
And far awa' beyond affront
To rein auld Adam in.

The social heights he's reached to here,
Through mony a snub and thraw,
One loving-kindness wi' a tear
Would far outshine them a'.

He plots and schemes to filch the puir,
With ne'er a sense o' sin,
Altho' a wee bird in the air
Sings, “Rein auld Adam in.”

And yet, for all that he is worth,
His moral manhood's rotten.
And soon as he's laid in the earth
Then he'll be quite forgotten.

Then always, when we're on the brink
O' some delightful sin,
Pause for a moment, stop and think,
Then rein auld Adam in.

With self the battle must be fought,
That right may wear the crown,
And never, never cherish aught
To drag our manhood down.

Still let us cherish faith and hope
That heart at last shall win,
And give the God within us scope
To rein auld Adam in.