#ScottishWriters
WHOE’ER thou art, O reader, kno… That Death has murder’d Johnie; An’ here his body lies fu’ low; For saul he ne’er had ony.
THE FRIEND whom, wild from Wi… The fumes of wine infuriate send, (Not moony madness more astray) Who but deplores that hapless frie… Mine was th’ insensate frenzied pa…
Chor.'And I’ll kiss thee yet, y… And I’ll kiss thee o’er again: And I’ll kiss thee yet, yet, My bonie Peggy Alison. ILK care and fear, when thou art…
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
Ye flowery banks o’ bonie Doon, How can ye blume sae fair? How can ye chant, ye little birds, And I sae fu’ o’ care? Thou’ll break my heart, thou bonie…
John Anderson my jo, John, When we were first acquent, Your locks were like the raven, Your bonny brow was brent; But now your brow is bled, John,
O THOU who kindly dost provide For every creature’s want! We bless Thee, God of Nature wid… For all Thy goodness lent: And if it please Thee, Heavenly…
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…
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…
WHAT needs this din about the to… How this new play an’ that new san… Why is outlandish stuff sae meikle… Does nonsense mend, like brandy, w… Is there nae poet, burning keen fo…
My curse upon your venom’d stang, That shoots my tortur’d gums alang… And thro’ my lugs gies mony a twan… Wi’ gnawing vengeance; Tearing my nerves wi’ bitter pang,
THERE lived a carl in Kellyburn… Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi’ t… And he had a wife was the plague o… And the thyme it is wither’d, and… Ae day as the carl gaed up the lan…
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…
“WHA is that at my bower-door?” “O wha is it but Findlay!” “Then gae your gate, ye’se nae be… “Indeed maun I,” quo’ Findlay; “What mak’ ye, sae like a thief?”
When Januar’ wind was blawing cau… As to the north I took my way, The mirksome night did me enfauld, I knew na whare to lodge till day: By my gude luck a maid I met,