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The summer's sun may mildly shine, n' winter's moon may grace the night, The sea may row its saftest waves, But these can ne'er my heart delight. How can I e'er be glad again, My all of life is ta'en frae me? Oh! I will wander waefu' still For her that liv'd near Woodhouselee.

Oh! I ha'e seen the morning sun, The highest heath'ry mountain gild, An' I ha'e seen his downward ray Darting upon the waving field: But soon the dark-red clouds convene, The thunders roll an' light'nings flee: Oh! sic has been my waefu' fate For her wha liv'd near Woodhouselee.

Is there for honest poverty,
 * Wha hangs his head and a' that,

The coward slave we pass him by,
 * And dare be poor for a' that.

For a' that, and a' that,
 * Our toils obscure and a' that,

The rank is but the guinea stamp,
 * The man's the goud for a' that.