Scotch Stories and Lectures: Humorous and Amusing

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J. P. Forrester, 1889 - 246 pages
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Page 86 - It's no in makin muckle, mair ; It's no in books, it's no in lear, To make us truly blest : If Happiness hae not her seat And centre in the breast, We may be wise, or rich, or great, But never can be blest : Nae treasures nor pleasures Could make us happy lang ; The heart ay's the part ay That makes us right or wrang.
Page 57 - Is king o" men for a' that. Ye see yon birkie, ca'da lord, Wha struts, an' stares, an' a' that: Tho' hundreds worship at his word, He's but a coof for a" that: For a' that, an' a' that, His ribband, star, an' a' that: The man o" independent mind He looks an' laughs at a
Page 226 - The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha', To thee my fancy took its wing, I sat, but neither heard nor saw: Tho' this was fair, and that was braw, And yon the toast of a' the town, I sigh'd and said amang them a'; — "Ye are na Mary Morison!
Page 47 - She guides the young with innocence In pleasure's path to tread ; A crown of glory she bestows Upon the hoary head. 5 According as her labours rise, So her rewards increase ; Her ways are ways of pleasantness, And all her paths are peace.
Page 100 - FRIEND after friend departs : Who hath not lost a friend ? There is no union here of hearts, That finds not here an end : Were this frail world our only rest, Living or dying, none were blest.
Page 161 - LANG hae thought, my youthfu' friend, A something to have sent you, Tho' it should serve nae ither end Than just a kind memento ; But how the subject theme may gang, Let time and chance determine ; Perhaps, it may turn out a sang, Perhaps, turn out a sermon.
Page 161 - Tho' poortith hourly stare him ; A man may tak a neebor's part, Yet hae nae cash to spare him. Aye free, aff han' your story tell, When wi" a bosom crony ; But still keep something to yoursel Ye scarcely tell to ony.
Page 162 - The great Creator to revere, Must sure become the creature; But still the preaching cant forbear, And...
Page 18 - We'd guess what star should be our home when love Becomes immortal; while the perfumed light Stole through the mists of alabaster lamps, And every air was heavy with the sighs Of orange -groves and music from sweet lutes, And murmurs of low fountains that gush forth I' the midst of roses ! — Dost thou like the picture ? Pauline.
Page 162 - I waive the quantum o' the sin, The hazard of concealing; But, Och! it hardens a' within, And petrifies the feeling!

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