WHEN first I came to Stewart Kyle, My mind it was na steady; Where’er I gaed, where’er I rade, A mistress still I had aye. But when I came roun’ by Mauchline toun, Not
FAREWEEL to a’ our Scottish fame, Fareweel our ancient glory; Fareweel ev’n to the Scottish name, Sae fam’d in martial story. Now Sark rins over Solway sands, An’ Tweed rins to the ocean, To
Scots, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled, Scots, wham Bruce has aften led, Welcome to your gory bed, Or to victory! Now’s the day, and now’s the hour; See the front o’ battle lour, See
WHOM will you send to London town, To Parliament and a’ that? Or wha in a’ the country round The best deserves to fa’ that? For a’ that, and a’ that, Thro’ Galloway and
DEAR SIR, at ony time or tide, I’d rather sit wi’ you than ride, Though ’twere wi’ royal Geordie: And trowth, your kindness, soon and late, Aft gars me to mysel’ look blate- The
FLOW gently, sweet Afton! amang thy green braes, Flow gently, I’ll sing thee a song in thy praise; My Mary’s asleep by thy murmuring stream, Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. Thou
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
Ye banks and braes o’ bonnie Doon, How can ye bloom sae fair! How can ye chant, ye little birds, And I sae fu’ o’ care! Thou’ll break my heart, thou bonnie bird That
YE men of wit and wealth, why all this sneering ‘Gainst poor Excisemen? Give the cause a hearing: What are your Landlord’s rent-rolls?-Taxing ledgers! What Premiers?-What ev’n Monarchs?-Mighty Gaugers! Nay, what are Priests? (those
WHEN Nature her great master-piece design’d, And fram’d her last, best work, the human mind, Her eye intent on all the mazy plan, She form’d of various parts the various Man. Then first she
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 pride Casts forth his eyes abroad,
Chorus.-The weary pund, the weary pund, The weary pund o’ tow; I think my wife will end her life, Before she spin her tow. I BOUGHT my wife a stane o’ lint, As gude
FRIDAY first’s the day appointed By the Right Worshipful anointed, To hold our grand procession; To get a blad o’ Johnie’s morals, And taste a swatch o’ Manson’s barrels I’ the way of our
HUMID seal of soft affections, Tenderest pledge of future bliss, Dearest tie of young connections, Love’s first snowdrop, virgin kiss! Speaking silence, dumb confession, Passion’s birth, and infant’s play, Dove-like fondness, chaste concession, Glowing
Chorus-Bannocks o’ bear meal, Bannocks o’ barley, Here’s to the Highlandman’s Bannocks o’ barley! WHA, in a brulyie, will First cry a parley? Never the lads wi’ the Bannocks o’ barley, Bannocks o’ bear