#Scots #XVIIICentury
HAD I a cave on some wild distan… Where the winds howl to the wave’s… There would I weep my woes, There seek my lost repose, Till grief my eyes should close,
It was upon a Lammas night, When corn rigs are bonnie, Beneath the moon’s unclouded light… I held away to Annie: The time flew by wi’ tentless heed
When Princes and Prelates and het… All Europe hae set in a lowe, The poor man lies down, nor envies… And comforts himsel with a mowe. And why shouldna poor folk mowe, m…
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 biting Boreas, fell and dour… Sharp shivers thro’ the leafless b… When Phoebus gies a short—liv’d g… Far south the lift, Dim—dark’ning thro’ the flaky show…
Ye sons of old Killie, assembled… To follow the noble vocation; Your thrifty old mother has scarce… To sit in that honoured station. I’ve little to say, but only to pr…
Musing on the roaring ocean, Which divides my love and me; Wearying heav’n in warm devotion, For his weal where’er he be. Hope and Fear’s alternate billow
Here awa’, there awa’, wandering,… Here awa’, there awa’, haud awa’ h… Come to my bosom, my ae only deary… Tell me thou bring’st me my Willi… Loud tho’ the winter blew cauld on…
Yestreen I had a pint o’ wine, A place where body saw na; Yestreen lay on this breast o’ min… The gowden locks of Anna. The hungry Jew in wilderness
Ye banks and braes o’ bonie Doon, How can ye bloom sae fresh and fai… How can ye chant, ye little birds, And I sae weary fu’ o’ care! Thou’ll break my heart, thou warbl…
Fair fa’ your honest, sonsie face, Great chieftain o’ the puddin—race… Aboon them a’ ye tak your place, Painch, tripe, or thairm: Weel are ye wordy of a grace
The Couper o’ Cuddy came here awa… He ca’d the girrs out o’er us a’; An’ our gudewife has gotten a ca’, That’s anger’d the silly gudeman… We’ll hide the Couper behint the…
LET other heroes boast their scar… The marks of sturt and strife: And other poets sing of wars, The plagues of human life: Shame fa’ the fun, wi’ sword and g…
Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary… And leave auld Scotia’s shore; Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary… Across th’ Atlantic roar. O sweet grows the lime and the ora…
O LEAVE novels, 1 ye Mauchline… Ye’re safer at your spinning-wheel… Such witching books are baited hoo… For rakish rooks, like Rob Mossgi… Your fine Tom Jones and Grandiso…
