TURN again, thou fair Eliza! Ae kind blink before we part; Rue on thy despairing lover, Can’st thou break his faithfu’ heart? Turn again, thou fair Eliza! If to love thy heart denies, Oh,
REVERED defender of beauteous Stuart, Of Stuart, a name once respected; A name, which to love was the mark of a true heart, But now ’tis despis’d and neglected. Tho’ something like moisture conglobes
AS I gaed up by yon gate-end, When day was waxin’ weary, Wha did I meet come down the street, But pretty Peg, my dearie! Her air sae sweet, an’ shape complete, Wi’ nae
THERE was five Carlins in the South, They fell upon a scheme, To send a lad to London town, To bring them tidings hame. Nor only bring them tidings hame, But do their errands
O DEATH, had’st thou but spar’d his life, Whom we this day lament, We freely wad exchanged the wife, And a’ been weel content. Ev’n as he is, cauld in his graff, The swap
NOW Nature hangs her mantle green On every blooming tree, And spreads her sheets o’ daisies white Out o’er the grassy lea; Now Phoebus cheers the crystal streams, And glads the azure skies; But
OUT over the Forth, I look to the North; But what is the north and its Highlands to me? The south nor the east gie ease to my breast, The far foreign land, or
MY 1 heart is wae, and unco wae, To think upon the raging sea, That roars between her gardens green An’ the bonie Lass of Albany. This lovely maid’s of royal blood That ruled
SWEET are the banks-the banks o’ Doon, The spreading flowers are fair, And everything is blythe and glad, But I am fu’ o’ care. Thou’ll break my heart, thou bonie bird, That sings upon
NO Spartan tube, no Attic shell, No lyre Æolian I awake; ‘Tis liberty’s bold note I swell, Thy harp, Columbia, let me take! See gathering thousands, while I sing, A broken chain exulting bring,
THO’ cruel fate should bid us part, Far as the pole and line, Her dear idea round my heart, Should tenderly entwine. Tho’ mountains, rise, and deserts howl, And oceans roar between; Yet, dearer
LONG life, my Lord, an’ health be yours, Unskaithed by hunger’d Highland boors; Lord grant me nae duddie, desperate beggar, Wi’ dirk, claymore, and rusty trigger, May twin auld Scotland o’ a life She
ORTHODOX! orthodox, who believe in John Knox, Let me sound an alarm to your conscience: A heretic blast has been blown in the West, That what is no sense must be nonsense, Orthodox! That
UPON 1 a simmer Sunday morn When Nature’s face is fair, I walked forth to view the corn, An’ snuff the caller air. The rising sun owre Galston muirs Wi’ glorious light was glintin;
O THOU who kindly dost provide For every creature’s want! We bless Thee, God of Nature wide, For all Thy goodness lent: And if it please Thee, Heavenly Guide, May never worse be sent;
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