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Auld baith banks beauty bend bonny breath breeze bring cheer cou'd DAMON dark dead death delight dowie earth EPIGRAM face fair fall fancy fear feeling Fergusson fields flowers fortune fouk frae genius green groves grow gude hame hand happy hath head hear heart hills hopes ilka Italy leave light look mair maun mind mony morn mourn Muse nature ne'er never night numbers o'er owre plain play pleasing pleasure poet poor reign rise round scene Scotland Scottish seen shade shepherd shore shou'd sigh sing smiles song sons soon sorrow sound spring strains streams swain sweet tear tell thee thou thought Till tongue turn Twas virtue voice waters weel wild wing wish wou'd youth
23. oldal - O ! who can hold a fire in his hand By thinking on the frosty Caucasus? Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite By bare imagination of a feast?
xiii. oldal - No sculptured marble here, nor pompous lay, ' No storied urn nor animated bust ;' This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way To pour her sorrows o'er her poet's dust.
99. oldal - HAPPY the man who, void of cares and strife, In silken or in leathern purse retains A Splendid Shilling.
133. oldal - Tho' age her sair-dow'd front wi' runcles wave ; Yet frae the russet lap the spindle plays ; Her e'enin stent reels she as weel's the lave. On some feast-day the wee things, buskit braw, Shall heeze her heart up wi...
133. oldal - O mock na this, my friends ! but rather mourn, Ye in life's brawest spring wi' reason clear ; Wi' eild our idle fancies a' return, And dim our dolefu' days wi' bairnly fear ; The mind's ay cradled whan the grave is near.
140. oldal - This bell o' mine's a trick, A wily piece o' politic, A cunnin' snare, To trap fouk in a cloven stick, Ere they're aware. " As lang's my dautit bell hings there, A...
180. oldal - Yarrow braes, Arcadian herds wad tyne their lays, To hear the mair melodious sounds That live on our poetic grounds. Come, Fancy ! come, and let us tread The simmer's flow'ry velvet bed, And a...
103. oldal - Wi' gude Braid Claith. On Sabbath-days the barber spark, Whan he has done wi' scrapin wark, Wi' siller broachie in his sark, Gangs trigly, faith ! Or to the Meadow, or the Park, In gude Braid Claith. Weel might ye trow, to see them there, That they to shave your haffits bare, Or curl and sleek a pickle hair, Wad be right laith, Whan pacing wi' a gawsy air In gude Braid Claith.