What people are saying - Write a review
We haven't found any reviews in the usual places.
Other editions - View all
acquaintance Agnes Broun Alloway Amang appears Armour auld Ayrshire bard Bible bonie braw brother Bums Burns's charms copy daughter dear death Deil died e'er Earl Marischal Edinburgh edition Epistle Ev'n ev'ry fair farm father Firth of Clyde fortune frae Gavin Hamilton Gilbert Burns Glasgow Greenock hand heart Highland Holy Irvine Jamaica James Jean John Kilmarnock Kirkoswald labour lass Lassie letter lived Lochlea Lodge Lord mair married Mary Campbell Mauchline maun Maybole meet mind minister mony Mossgiel mother Mount Oliphant Murdoch Muse ne'er never night Niven o'er owre parish pleasure poem poet poet's poetic poor pride rhyme Robert Burns says scene Scotch Scotland Scottish Shanter sing song stanza sweet Tarbolton tell thee Thou thought thro took verse weel whyles wife William Burnes young
Page 306 - Tho' they may gang a kennin wrang, To step aside is human : One point must still be greatly dark, The moving Why they do it ; And just as lamely can ye mark, How far perhaps they rue it. Who made the heart, 'tis He alone Decidedly can try us, He knows each chord its various tone, Each spring its various bias : Then at the balance let's be mute, We never can adjust it ; What's done we partly may compute, But know not what's resisted.
Page 338 - There, oft as mild evening weeps over the lea, The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me. Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides, And winds by the cot where my Mary resides; How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, As gathering sweet flowerets she stems thy clear wave.
Page 95 - Yestreen, when to the trembling string 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 323 - Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, That fate is thine — no distant date ; Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives, elate, Full on thy bloom, Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight, Shall be thy doom ! TO RUIN.
Page 218 - November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh; The short'ning winter-day is near a close; The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh; The black'ning trains o' craws to their repose: The toil-worn Cotter frae his labor goes — This night his weekly moil is at an end, Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend. HI At length his lonely cot appears in view, Beneath the shelter of an aged tree; Th' expectant...
Page 215 - See yonder poor, o'erlabour'd wight, So abject, mean, and vile, Who begs a brother of the earth To give him leave to toil ; And see his lordly fellow-worm The poor petition spurn, Unmindful tho' a weeping wife And helpless offspring mourn.
Page 115 - With passions wild and strong; And list'ning to their witching voice Has often led me wrong.
Page 37 - With Amalek's ungracious progeny; Or how the royal bard did groaning lie Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire; Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry; Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire : Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre.