Paisley Poets: With Brief Memoirs of Them, and Selections from Their Poetry, Volume 1

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J.&J. Cook, 1889 - English poetry
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Page 306 - I've borne a weary lot ; But in my wanderings, far or near, Ye never were forgot. The fount that first burst frae this heart, Still travels on its way ; And channels deeper as it rins, The luve o' life's young day. O, dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, Since we were sindered young, I've never seen your face, nor heard The music o...
Page 173 - Emblem, methought, of the departed soul ! To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given ; And by the breath of mercy made to roll Right onward to the golden gates of heaven, Where, to the eye of Faith, it peaceful lies, And tells to man his glorious destinies.
Page 306 - Had ony power to speak! That was a time, a blessed time, When hearts were fresh and young When freely gushed all feelings forth, Unsyllabled, — unsung ! I marvel, Jeanie Morrison, Gin I hae been to thee As closely twined wi...
Page 304 - The luve o' life's young day! The fire that's blawn on Beltane e'en, May weel be black gin Yule ; But blacker fa' awaits the heart Where first fond luve grows cule. O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, The thochts o' bygane years Still fling their shadows ower my path, And blind my een wi...
Page 94 - And sweet is the birk, wi' its mantle o' green ; Yet sweeter and fairer, and dear to this bosom, Is lovely young Jessie, the flower o
Page 307 - Then mounte! then mounte, brave gallants, all And don your helmes amaine: Deathe's couriers, Fame and Honor, call Us to the field againe. No shrewish teares shall fill our eye When the sword-hilt's in our hand...
Page 305 - In the silentness o' joy, till baith Wi' very gladness grat. Ay, ay, dear Jeanie Morrison, Tears trinkled doun your cheek Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane Had ony power to speak! That was a time, a blessed time, When hearts were fresh and young...
Page 305 - How cheeks brent red wi' shame, Whene'er the scule-weans, laughin' said, We cleek'd thegither hame ? And mind ye o' the Saturdays, (The scule then skail't at noon,) When we ran aff to speel the braes — The broomy braes o...
Page 171 - To whom belongs this valley fair, That sleeps beneath the filmy air, Even like a living thing ? Silent, — as infant at the breast, — Save a still sound that speaks of rest, That streamlet's murmuring ! The heavens appear to love this vale ; Here clouds with scarce-seen motion sail, Or 'mid the silence lie. By that blue arch, this beauteous earth Mid evening's hour of dewy mirth Seems bound unto the sky.
Page 173 - Even in its very motion there was rest : While every breath of eve that chanced to blow, Wafted the traveller to the beauteous West. Emblem, methought, of the departed soul ! To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given ; And by the breath of mercy made to roll Right...

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