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aften Amang Auld Reekie baith bard bauld beauty blaw blithe bonny Boreas braw breeze Browster Burns busk canna canty cauld cauler cheer chiel cleedin cottar cou'd dead dowie e'er ECLOGUE Edina's Edinburgh eithly fair fancy Fergusson fouk frae genius gien girn glowr green groves hail hame hath heart ilka lads loun lyre maun mind mirth mony morn mourn Muse nae mair Naiads ne'er never night numbers o'er owre plain poet poortith ROBERT FERGUSSON round scene Scotland Scottish Scottish language seenil shade shepherd shore shou'd sigh siller Simmer sing smiles song sorrow spring strain streams swain sweet thee thole thou TIMANTHES tongue trow Twas unco virtue voice wame weel weet Whase whilk wing wirrikow woes wonted wou'd youth
Page 33 - 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 xv - 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 113 - HAPPY the man who, void of cares and strife, In silken or in leathern purse retains A Splendid Shilling.
Page 147 - 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 147 - 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.
Page 154 - 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...
Page 194 - 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...
Page 117 - 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.