#Scots #BalladesYRhymes
In the Morning of Time, when his… How bleak, how un-Greek, was the… From his wigwam, if ever he ventur… There was nobody waiting to welcom… For the Man had been made, but th…
Rob Roy from the Highlands cam, Unto the Lawlan’ border, To steal awa a gay ladie To haud his house in order. He cam oure the lock o’ Lynn,
The burden of hard hitting: slog a… Here shalt thou make a “five” and… And then upon thy bat shalt lean,… That thou art in for an uncommon s… Yea, the loud ring applauding thee…
In the Aves of Aristophanes, the Bird Chorus declare that they are older than the Gods, and greater benefactors of men. This idea recurs in almost all savage mythologies, and I have ma...
(Clement Marot’s Frère Lubin, th… Some ten or twenty times a day, To bustle to the town with speed, To dabble in what dirt he may,— Le Frère Lubin’s the man you need…
Clerk Saunders and may Margaret Walked ower yon garden green; And sad and heavy was the love That fell thir twa between. ‘A bed, a bed,’ Clerk Saunders sa…
Fair Amaryllis, wilt thou never p… From forth the cave, and call me,… Lo, apples ten I bear thee from t… These didst thou long for, and all… Ah, would I were a honey-bee to s…
The painted Briton built his moun… And left his celts and clay, On yon fair slope of sunlit ground That fronts your garden gay; The Roman came, he bore the sway,
Light has flown! Through the grey The wind’s way The sea’s moan Sound alone!
(Sidero, the stepmother of Tyro,… At fierce Sidero’s word the thral… And shore the locks of Tyro,—like… They fell in golden harvest,—but f… The maiden shuddered in her pain a…
‘O wha will shoe my fu’ fair foot? And wha will glove my hand? And wha will lace my middle jimp, Wi’ the new-made London band? ‘And wha will kaim my yellow hair,
Now the light of the sun, in the n… Shines, and their city is girt wit… And deep is the shade of the woods… Sings of the sea, and is sweet fro… Green is their garden and orchard,…
I scribbled on a fly-book’s leaves Among the shining salmon-flies; A song for summer-time that grieve… I scribbled on a fly-book’s leaves… Between grey sea and golden sheave…
It fell on a day, and a bonnie sum… When the corn grew green and yello… That there fell out a great disput… Between Argyle and Airly. The Duke o’ Montrose has written…
On these Nysæan shores divine The clusters ripen in a day. At dawn the blossom shreds away; The berried grapes are green and f… And full by noon; in day’s decline