The Hero,

From the Poems of William Nicol, late, Editor of the
Leeds Times, a man in whose death (which happened
about twenty-eight months ago) freedom lost one of her
warmest and ablest advocates.
My hero is na’ deck’d wi’ goud ;1
He has nae glitterin’ state ;2
Renown, upon a field o’ bluid,3
In woe, he hasna met.4
He has nae siller in his pouch ;5
Nae menials at his ca’ ;6
The proud o’ earth frae him wad turn,7
And bid him staun awa’.8
His coat is homespun hodden grey; 9
His shoon are clooted sair ;10
His garments, maist unhero like,11
Are a’ the waur o’ wear.12
His limbs are strong—his shouthers braid—13
His hands are made to plough ;14
He’s rough without, but soun’ within :15
His heart is bauldly true.16
He toils at e’en—he toils at morn—17
His wark is never through :18
A comin’ life o’ weary toil19
Is ever in his view.20
But on he stammers, keeping up21
His heart as best he may,22
An’ proud to be an honest man23
Until his dying day.24
Go mock at conquerors and kings25
What happiness gi’e they ;26
Go tell the painted butterflies27
To kneel them down and pray.28
Go, stand erect in manhood’s pride—29
Be what a man should be ;30
Syne come and to my hero bend31
Upon the grass-your knee.32