#ScottishWriters
The Author’s Only Pet Yowe An Unco Mournfu’ Tale As Mailie, an’ her lambs thegithe… Was ae day nibbling on the tether, Upon her cloot she coost a hitch,
[First Setting] Comin thro’ the rye, poor body, Comin thro’ the rye, She draigl’t a’ her petticoatie Comin thro’ the rye.
On a bank of flowers in a summer d… For summer lightly drest, The youthful, blooming Nelly lay, With love and sleep opprest; When Willie, wand’ring thro the w…
DAUGHTER of Chaos’ doting year… Nurse of ten thousand hopes and fe… Whether thy airy, insubstantial sh… (The rights of sepulture now duly… Spread abroad its hideous form
ONE Queen Artemisia, as old stor… When deprived of her husband she l… In respect for the love and affect… She reduc’d him to dust and she dr… But Queen Netherplace, of a diff’…
Tune - “Galla Water.” Altho’ my bed were in yon muir, Amang the heather, in my plaidie; Yet happy, happy would I be, Had I my dear Montgomerie’s Pegg…
Fareweel to a’ our Scottish fame, Fareweel our ancient glory; Fareweel ev’n to the Scottish nam… Sae famed in martial story! Now Sark rins over Solway sands,
HE who of Rankine sang, lies stif… And a green grassy hillock hides h… Alas! alas! a devilish change inde…
Last May a braw wooer cam down th… And sair wi’ his love he did deave… I said there was naething I hated… The deuce gae wi ‘m to believe me,… The deuce gae wi ’m to believe me.
IN Politics if thou would’st mix, And mean thy fortunes be; Bear this in mind, be deaf and bli… Let great folk hear and see.
O RAGING Fortune’s withering b… Has laid my leaf full low, O! O raging Fortune’s withering blas… Has laid my leaf full low, O! My stem was fair, my bud was green…
O DEATH, had’st thou but spar’d… Whom we this day lament, We freely wad exchanged the wife, And a’ been weel content. Ev’n as he is, cauld in his graff,
WHEN, by a generous Public’s kin… That dearest meed is granted’hon… Waen here your favour is the actor… Nor even the man in private life f… What breast so dead to heavenly V…
WAE worth thy power, thou cursed… Fell source o’ a’ my woe and grief… For lack o’ thee I’ve lost my las… For lack o’ thee I scrimp my glas… I see the children of affliction