IT was the charming month of May, When all the flow’rs were fresh and gay. One morning, by the break of day, The youthful, charming Chloe- From peaceful slumber she arose, Girt on her
ALL villain as I am-a damnиd wretch, A hardened, stubborn, unrepenting villain, Still my heart melts at human wretchedness; And with sincere but unavailing sighs I view the helpless children of distress: With tears
O WAT ye wha that lo’es me And has my heart a-keeping? O sweet is she that lo’es me, As dews o’ summer weeping, In tears the rosebuds steeping! Chorus.-O that’s the lassie o’
MY heart is a-breaking, dear Tittie, Some counsel unto me come len’, To anger them a’ is a pity, But what will I do wi’ Tam Glen? I’m thinking, wi’ sic a braw fellow,
Chorus-Long, long the night, Heavy comes the morrow While my soul’s delight Is on her bed of sorrow. CAN I cease to care? Can I cease to languish, While my darling Fair Is on
IN Mauchline there dwells six proper young belles, The pride of the place and its neighbourhood a’; Their carriage and dress, a stranger would guess, In Lon’on or Paris, they’d gotten it a’. Miss
AS 1 I cam by Crochallan, I cannilie keekit ben; Rattlin’, roarin’ Willie Was sittin at yon boord-en’; Sittin at yon boord-en, And amang gude companie; Rattlin’, roarin’ Willie, You’re welcome hame to me!
O THOU! whatever title suit thee- Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie, Wha in yon cavern grim an’ sootie, Clos’d under hatches, Spairges about the brunstane cootie, To scaud poor wretches! Hear me, auld
WHARE live ye, my bonie lass? And tell me what they ca’ ye; My name, she says, is mistress Jean, And I follow the Collier laddie. My name, she says, &c. See you not
DELUDED swain, the pleasure The fickle Fair can give thee, Is but a fairy treasure, Thy hopes will soon deceive thee: The billows on the ocean, The breezes idly roaming, The cloud’s uncertain motion,
SOME books are lies frae end to end, And some great lies were never penn’d: Ev’n ministers they hae been kenn’d, In holy rapture, A rousing whid at times to vend, And nail’t wi’
MY heart is sair-I dare na tell, My heart is sair for Somebody; I could wake a winter night For the sake o’ Somebody. O-hon! for Somebody! O-hey! for Somebody! I could range the
ONE night as I did wander, When corn begins to shoot, I sat me down to ponder Upon an auld tree root; Auld Ayr ran by before me, And bicker’d to the seas; A
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 orange, And
WHAT dost thou in that mansion fair? Flit, Galloway, and find Some narrow, dirty, dungeon cave, The picture of thy mind. – No Stewart art thou, Galloway, The Stewarts ‘ll were brave; Besides, the
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