#Scots #XVIIICentury
WITH Pegasus upon a day, Apollo, weary flying, Through frosty hills the journey l… On foot the way was plying. Poor slipshod giddy Pegasus
IN this strange land, this uncout… A land unknown to prose or rhyme; Where words ne’er cross’t the Mus… Nor limpit in poetic shackles: A land that Prose did never view…
Chorus Ca’ the yowes to the knowes, Ca’ them where the heather grows Ca’ them where the burnie rows, My bonie dearie.
WHEN dear Clarinda, 1 matchless… First struck Sylvander’s raptur’d… He gaz’d, he listened to despair, Alas! 'twas all he dared to do. Love, from Clarinda’s heavenly ey…
I’m now arrived– thanks to the god… Thro’ pathways rough and muddy, A certain sign that makin roads Is no this people’s study: Altho’ I’m not wi’ Scripture cram…
HAIL, Poesie! thou Nymph reserv… In chase o’ thee, what crowds hae… Frae common sense, or sunk enerv’d 'Mang heaps o’ clavers: And och! o’er aft thy joes hae sta…
As I was a-wand’ring ae morning i… I heard a young ploughman sae swee… And as he was singin’, thir words… There’s nae life like the ploughma… The lav’rock in the morning she’ll…
Oppress’d with grief, oppress’d wi… A burden more than I can bear, I set me down and sigh: O life! thou art a galling load, Along a rough, a weary road,
Is there for honest poverty That hangs his head, an’ a’ that? The coward slave, we pass him by We dare be poor for a’ that. For a’ that, an’ a’ that,
WHEN chill November’s surly blas… Made fields and forests bare, One ev’ning, as I wander’d forth Along the banks of Ayr, I spied a man, whose aged step
I HAE been at Crookieden, My bonie laddie, Highland laddie, Viewing Willie and his men, My bonie laddie, Highland laddie. There our foes that burnt and slew…
Farewell to the Highlands, farewe… The birth-place of Valour, the co… Wherever I wander, wherever I rov… The hills of the Highlands for ev… My heart’s in the Highlands, my h…
O HAD each Scot of ancient times Been, Jeanie Scott, as thou art; The bravest heart on English grou… Had yielded like a coward.
THOU, Liberty, thou art my theme… Not such as idle poets dream, Who trick thee up a heathen goddes… That a fantastic cap and rod has; Such stale conceits are poor and s…
I hae seen the hairst o’ Rettie,… And twa—three aff the throne. I’ve heard o sax and seven weeks The hairsters girn and groan. But wi’ a covie Willie Rae
