#Scots #XVIIICentury
But lately seen in gladsome green The woods rejoic’d the day, Thro’ gentle showers, the laughing… In double pride were gay: But now our joys are fled
SWEET flow’ret, pledge o’ meikle… And ward o’ mony a prayer, What heart o’ stane wad thou na mo… Sae helpless, sweet, and fair? November hirples o’er the lea,
KEMBLE, thou cur’st my unbelief For Moses and his rod; At Yarico’s sweet nor of grief The rock with tears had flow’d.
My love, she’s but a lassie yet, My love, she’s but a lassie yet! We’ll let her stand a year or twa, She’ll no be half sae saucy yet! I rue the day I sought her, O!
Ah, woe is me, my mother dear! A man of strife ye’ve born me: For sair contention I maun bear; They hate, revile, and scorn me. I ne’er could lend on bill or band…
Talk not of love, it gives me pain… For love has been my foe; He bound me in an iron chain, And plung’d me deep in woe. But friendship’s pure and lasting…
Inscribed to Robert Aiken, Es… Let not Ambition mock their usefu… Their homely joys and destiny obsc… Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainf… The short and simple annals of the…
O SAW ye my Dear, my Philly? O saw ye my Dear, my Philly, She’s down i’ the grove, she’s wi’… She winna come hame to her Willy. What says she my dear, my Philly?
Her flowing locks, the raven’s win… Adown her neck and bosom hing; How sweet unto that breast to clin… And round that neck entwine her! Her lips are roses wat wi’ dew,
Now in her green mantle blythe Na… And listens the lambkins that blea… While birds warble welcomes in ilk… But to me it’s delightless-my Nan… The snawdrap and primrose our wood…
BLEST be M’Murdo to his latest… No envious cloud o’ercast his even… No wrinkle, furrow’d by the hand o… Nor ever sorrow add one silver hai… O may no son the father’s honour s…
YOUR News and Review, sir. I’ve read through and through, sir… With little admiring or blaming; The Papers are barren Of home-news or foreign,
THE GLOOMY night is gath’ring… Loud roars the wild, inconstant bl… Yon murky cloud is foul with rain, I see it driving o’er the plain; The hunter now has left the moor.
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,
Nae lark in transport mounts the s… Or leaves wi’ early plaintive cry, But I will bid a last good—bye, My last farewell to Stirling O. Chorus: