#ScottishWriters
The stars cleave the sky. Yet for us they rest, And their race-course high Is a shining nest! The hours hurry on.
Trust him in the common light; Trust him in the awesome night; Trust him when the earth doth quak… Trust him when thy heart doth ache… Trust him when thy brain doth reel
Methought I stood among the stars… Watching a grey parched orb which… Half blinded by the dusty winds th… Empty as Death and barren as a st… The pleasant sound of water all un…
Days of old, Ye are not dead, though gone from… Ye are not cold, But like the summer-birds fled o’e… The sun brings back the swallows f…
Hark, the rain is on my roof! Every murmur, through the dark, Stings me with a dull reproof Like a half-extinguished spark. Me! ah me! how came I here,
Autumn clouds are flying, flying O’er the waste of blue; Summer flowers are dying, dying, Late so lovely new. Labouring wains are slowly rolling
She comes! again she comes, the br… Under a ragged cloud I found her… Clasping her own dark orb like hop… That ragged cloud hath waited her… And he hath found and he will hide…
‘Good morrow, my lord!’ in the sky… Sang the lark as the sun ascended… ‘Shine on me, my lord: I only am… Of all your servants, to welcome y… I have shot straight up, a whole h…
THE song birds that come to me ni… Fly oft away and vanish if I slee… Nor to my fowling-net will one ret… Is the thing ever ours we cannot k… But their souls go not out into th…
Heaven and the sea attend the dyin… And in their sadness overflow and… Faint gold, and windy blue, and gr… Far out amid them my pale soul I… For, as they mingle, so mix life a…
Greitna, father, that I’m gauin, For fu’ well ye ken the gaet; I’ the winter, corn ye’re sawin, I’ the hairst again ye hae’t. I’m gauin hame to see my mither;
Great-hearted child, thy very bein… The Son, Who know’st the hearts of all us p… For who is prodigal but he who has… Far from the true to heart it with…
I was very cold In the summer weather; The sun shone all his gold, But I was very cold– Alas, we were grown old,
Waking in the night to pray, Sleeping when the answer comes, Foolish are we even at play– Tearfully we beat our drums! Cast the good dry bread away,
How shall he sing who hath no song… He laugh who hath no mirth? Will cannot wake the sleeping song… Yea, Love itself in vain may long To sing with them that have a song…