Paisley Poets: With Brief Memoirs of Them, and Selections from Their Poetry, Volume 2

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J.&J. Cook, 1890 - English poetry
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Page 269 - City! I am true son of thine; Ne'er dwelt I where great mornings shine Around the bleating pens; Ne'er by the rivulets I strayed, And ne'er upon my childhood weighed The silence of the glens. Instead of shores where ocean beats, I hear the ebb and flow of streets.
Page 269 - Black Labour draws his weary waves, Into their secret-moaning caves; But with the morning light, That sea again will overflow With a long weary sound of woe, Again to faint in night. Wave am I in that sea of woes, Which, night and morning, ebbs and flows.
Page 102 - Thou bonnie wee well on the breist o' the brae, My blessing rests with thee, wherever I stray; In joy and in sorrow, in sunshine and gloom, I will dream of thy beauty, thy freshness, and bloom. In the depths of the city, midst turmoil and noise, I'll oft hear with rapture thy lone trickling voice, While fancy takes wing to thy rich fringe of green, And quaffs thy cool waters in noon's gowden sheen.
Page 102 - The bonnie wee well on the breist o' the brae, Where the hare steals to drink in the gloamin' sae gray. Where the wild moorlan' birds dip their nebs and tak' wing, And the lark weets his whistle ere mounting to sing. Thou bonnie wee well on the breist o...
Page 439 - Hero where in dim forgotten days, A savage people chanted lays To long since perished gods, I stand : The sea breaks in, runs up the sand. Retreats as with a long-drawn sigh, Sweeps in again ; again leaves dry The ancient beach, so old and yet So new that as the strong tides fret The island barriers in their flow The ebb-hours of each day can know A surface change. The day is dead, The sun is set, and overhead The white north stars set keen and bright ; The wind upon the sea is light And just enough...
Page 101 - And croons a laigh sang a' to pleasure itsel' As it jinks 'neath the breckan and genty bluebell. The bonnie wee well on the breist o' the brae Seems an image to me o' a bairnie at play; For it springs frae the yird wi' a flicker o' glee; And it kisses the flowers, while its ripple they pree. The bonnie wee well on the breist o...
Page 269 - I know thee as my mother's face. When sunset bathes thee in his gold, In wreaths of bronze thy sides are rolled, Thy smoke is dusky fire; And, from the glory round thee poured, A sunbeam like an angel's sword Shivers upon a spire. , ; Thus have I watched thee, Terror! Dream! While the blue Night crept up the stream.
Page 102 - Thou bonnie wee well on the breist o' the brae, While I stoop to thy bosom, my thirst to allay, I will drink to the loved ones who come back nae mair, And my tears will but hallow thy bosom sae fair. Thou bonnie wee well on the breist o...
Page 211 - I felt that downy stillness To be more sublime Than the thunder, flakes like ages In the lapse of Time. Bright sun ! blue skies ! Now the orchard Hath no air of gloom, White-clothed, down-weighed branches seeming Laden with summer bloom.
Page 268 - tis a merry world ; That cottage smoke is rolled and curled In sport, that every moss Is happy, every inch of soil ; — Before me runs a road of toil With my grave cut across.

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