69. Third Epistle to J. Lapraik
GUID speed and furder to you, Johnie, Guid health, hale han’s, an’ weather bonie; Now, when ye’re nickin down fu’ cannie The staff o’ bread, May ye ne’er want a stoup o’ bran’y To
425. Song-Had I a cave
HAD I a cave on some wild distant shore, Where the winds howl to the wave’s dashing roar: There would I weep my woes, There seek my lost repose, Till grief my eyes should
441. Complimentary Epigram to Mrs. Riddell
“PRAISE Woman still,” his lordship roars, “Deserv’d or not, no matter?” But thee, whom all my soul adores, Ev’n Flattery cannot flatter: Maria, all my thought and dream, Inspires my vocal shell; The more
143. Fragment on Sensibility
RUSTICITY’S ungainly form May cloud the highest mind; But when the heart is nobly warm, The good excuse will find. Propriety’s cold, cautious rules Warm fervour may o’erlook: But spare poor sensibility Th’ ungentle,
21. Fickle Fortune: A Fragment
THOUGH fickle Fortune has deceived me, She pormis’d fair and perform’d but ill; Of mistress, friends, and wealth bereav’d me, Yet I bear a heart shall support me still. I’ll act with prudence as
12. Song-The Lass of Cessnock Banks
ON Cessnock banks a lassie dwells; Could I describe her shape and mein; Our lasses a’ she far excels, An’ she has twa sparkling roguish een. She’s sweeter than the morning dawn, When rising
56. Epistle to Davie, A Brother Poet
WHILE winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw, An’ bar the doors wi’ driving snaw, An’ hing us owre the ingle, I set me down to pass the time, An’ spin a verse or twa o’
109. My Highland Lassie, O
NAE gentle dames, tho’ e’er sae fair, Shall ever be my muse’s care: Their titles a’ arc empty show; Gie me my Highland lassie, O. Chorus.-Within the glen sae bushy, O, Aboon the plain
298. Prologue spoken at the Theatre of Dumfries
NO song nor dance I bring from yon great city, That queens it o’er our taste-the more’s the pity: Tho’ by the bye, abroad why will you roam? Good sense and taste are natives
382. Song-I'll meet thee on the Lea Rig
WHEN o’er the hill the eastern star Tells bughtin time is near, my jo, And owsen frae the furrow’d field Return sae dowf and weary O; Down by the burn, where birken buds Wi’