#ScottishWriters
COME to me, all ye that labour;… Here apart in starry quiet I will… Come to me, ye heavy laden, sin de… In your father’s quiet mansions, s… But an hour you bear your trial, s…
The relic taken, what avails the s… The locket, pictureless? O heart… Art thou not worse than that, Still warm, a vacant nest where lo… Her image nestled closer at my hea…
YOU have been far, and I Been farther yet, Since last, in foul or fair An impecunious pair, Below this northern sky
FIXED is the doom; and to the la… Teacher and taught, friend, lover,… Each walks, though near, yet separ… His dear ones shine beyond him lik… We also, love, forever dwell apart…
Faster than fairies, faster than w… Bridges and houses, hedges and dit… And charging along like troops in… All through the meadows the horses… All of the sights of the hill and…
Of all my verse, like not a single… But like my title, for it is not m… That title from a better man I st… Ah, how much better, had I stol’n…
HAD I the power that have the wi… The enfeebled will– a modern curse… This book of mine should blossom s… A perfect garden—ground of verse. White placid marble gods should ke…
YOU remember, I suppose, How the August sun arose, And how his face Woke to trill and carolette All the cages that were set
It’s an owercome sooth for age an’… And it brooks wi’ nae denial, That the dearest friends are the a… And the young are just on trial. There’s a rival bauld wi’ young an…
My Treasures These nuts, that I keep in the ba… Where all my tin soldiers are lyin… Were gathered in Autumn by nursie… In a wood with a well by the side…
Long must elapse ere you behold ag… Green forest frame the entry of th… The wild lane with the bramble and… The year-old cart-tracks perfect i… The wayside smoke, perchance, the…
Of a’ the ills that flesh can fear… The loss o’ frien’s, the lack o’ g… A yowlin’ tyke, a glandered mear, A lassie’s nonsense - There’s just ae thing I cannae be…
Go, little book, and wish to all Flowers in the garden, meat in the… A bin of wine, a spice of wit, A house with lawns enclosing it, A living river by the door,
Sing me a song of a lad that is go… Say, could that lad be I? Merry of soul he sailed on a day Over the sea to Skye. Mull was astern, Rum on the port,
WHEN my young lady has grown gre… And in long raiment wondrously arr… She may take pleasure with a smile… How she delighted men—folk long ag… For her long after, then, this tal…