#Scots #XVIIICentury
O Thou, that in the heavens does… Wha, as it pleases best Thysel’, Sends ane to heaven an’ ten to hel… A’ for Thy glory, And no for onie guid or ill
CURSE on ungrateful man, that ca… And yet can starve the author of t… O thou, my elder brother in misfor… By far my elder brother in the Mu… With tears I pity thy unhappy fat…
To Mary In Heaven Thou lingering star, with less’nin… That lov’st to greet the early mor… Again thou usherast in the day My Mary from my soul was torn.
[First Setting] Comin thro’ the rye, poor body, Comin thro’ the rye, She draigl’t a’ her petticoatie Comin thro’ the rye.
The winter it is past, and the sum… And the small birds, they sing on… Now ev’ry thing is glad, while I… Since my true love is parted from… The rose upon the breer, by the wa…
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…
DEAR Myra, the captive ribband’s… ’Twas all my faithful love could g… And would you ask me to resign The sole reward that crowns my pai… Go, bid the hero who has run
When chapman billies leave the str… And drouthy neebors neebors meet, As market—days are wearing late, And folk begin to tak the gate; While we sit bousin, at the nappy,
SHREWD Willie Smellie to Croch… The old cock’d hat, the grey surto… His bristling beard just rising in… 'Twas four long nights and days to… His uncomb’d grizzly locks, wild s…
Lament in rhyme, lament in prose, Wi’ saut tears tricklin down your… Our bardie’s fate is at a close, Past a’ remead! The last, sad cape—stane o’ his wo…
GO fetch to me a pint o’ wine, An’ fill it in a silver tassie, That I may drink, before I go, A service to my bonnie lassie. The boat rocks at the pier o’ Lei…
The man, in life wherever plac’d, Hath happiness in store, Who walks not in the wicked’s way, Nor learns their guilty lore! Nor from the seat of scornful prid…
A Guide New—year I wish thee, Ma… Hae, there’s a ripp to thy auld ba… Tho’ thou’s howe—backit now, an’ k… I’ve seen the day There could hae gaen like ony stag…
O my Luve is like a red, red rose That’s newly sprung in June; O my Luve is like the melody That’s sweetly played in tune. So fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
