What though the homespun suit he wears,
Best suited to the sons of toil--
What though on coarsest food he fares,
And tends the loom, or tills the soil--
What though no gold-leaf gilds the tongue,
Devoted to congenial chat--
If right prevails, and not the wrong,
The man is not the worse for that.
What though within his humble cot
No costly ornament is seen--
What though his wife possesses not
Her satin gowns of black and green--
What though the merry household band
Half naked fly to ball and bat--
If Conscience guides the heart and hand,
The man is none the worse for that.
True worth is not a thing of dress--
Of splendor, wealth, or classic lore;
Would that these trappings we loved less,
And clung to honest worth the more!
Though pride may spurn the toiling crowd,
The faded garb, the napless hat,
Yet God and Nature cry aloud--
The man is none the worse for that.