The works of Robert Fergusson, to which is prefixed, a sketch of the author's life [by A. Peterkin]. (Google eBook)

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1807
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Page 116 - 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?
Page 250 - Mark it, Cesario; it is old and plain: The spinsters and the knitters in the sun, And the free maids that weave their thread with bones, Do use to chant it ; it is silly sooth, And dallies with the innocence of love, Like the old age.
Page 288 - And dim our dolefu' days wi' bairnly fear ; The mind's aye cradled when the grave is near. Yet thrift, industrious, bides her latest days, 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...
Page 247 - While he draws breath, Till his four quarters are bedeckit Wi' gude Braid Claith. On Sabbath-days the barber spark, Whan he has done wi...
Page 66 - 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.
Page 198 - When you censure the age, Be cautious and sage, Lest the courtiers offended, should be ; If you mention vice or bribe, 'Tis so pat to all the tribe, Each cries That was levelld at me.
Page 313 - I'd been there, How I wad trimm'd the bill o' fare ! For ne'er sic surly wight as he Had met wi' sic respect frae me. Mind ye what Sam,' the lying loun ! Has in his Dictionar laid down ? That aits in England are a feast To cow an' horse, an' sican beast, While in Scots ground this growth was common To gust the gab o
Page 132 - O great god Pan, to thee Thus do we sing ! Thou that keep'st us chaste and free As the young spring ; Ever be thy honour spoke, From that place the Morn is broke To that place Day doth unyoke...
Page 243 - HAPPY the man who, void of cares and strife, In silken or in leathern purse retains A Splendid Shilling.
Page 288 - 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.

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