The prose works of Robert Burns; containing his letters and correspondence and amatory epistles (Google eBook)

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1819
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Page 19 - I do not know if I should call it pleasure — but something which. exalts me, something which enraptures me — than to walk in .the sheltered side of a wood, or high plantation, in a cloudy winter day, and. hear the stormy wind howling among the trees, and raving over the plain. It is my best season for devotion : my mind is wrapt up in a kind of enthusiasm to Him who, in the pompous language of the Hebrew bard, 'walks on the wings of the wind.
Page 173 - Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes, And fondly broods with miser care ; Time but the impression stronger makes, As streams their channels deeper wear.
Page 162 - Mary! dear departed shade! Where is thy place of blissful rest? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?
Page 125 - I have some favourite flowers in spring, among which are the mountain-daisy, the hare-bell, the fox-glove, the wild-brier rose, the budding birch, and the hoary hawthorn, that I view and hang over with particular delight.
Page 334 - Wha will be a traitor knave ? Wha can fill a coward's grave ? Wha sae base as be a slave? Let him turn and flee ! Wha for Scotland's king and law Freedom's sword...
Page 568 - tis nought to me; Since God is ever present, ever felt, In the void waste as in the city full ; And where He vital breathes, there must be joy.
Page 16 - For my own part I never had the least thought or inclination of turning poet till I got once heartily in love, and then rhyme and song were, in a manner the spontaneous language of my heart.
Page 187 - Thy spirit, Independence ! let me share, Lord of the lion heart and eagle eye ! Thy steps I follow 'with my bosom bare, Nor heed the storm that howls along the sky.
Page 475 - It is the moon — I ken her horn, That's blinkin in the lift sae hie ; She shines sae bright to wyle us hame, But, by my sooth, she'll wait a wee ! Wha first shall rise to gang awa', A cuckold, coward loon is he ! Wha last beside his chair shall fa...
Page 316 - O gin my love were yon red rose That grows upon the castle wa', And I mysel' a drap o' dew, Into her bonnie breast to fa' ! Oh, there beyond expression blest, I'd feast on beauty a' the night ; Seal'd on her silk-saft faulds to rest, Till fley'd awa' by Phoebus

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