The Works of Robert Burns

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T. Tegg, 1840 - Poets, Scottish - 820 pages
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Down the burn Davic
Fife and a the lands about it
Lord Ronald my
To Miss Eliza B Lochlea on love
To Robert Aiken JulyWilson
To the same Jan Encloses
To the Earl of Buchan Feb Grate
XLVI To Gavin Hamilton Esq Mar 8 death of an old confounder of right
To On Fergussons Head AuthorityNicol gabbling Latin
To William Nicol June 18Charmed his respects to the Author of the best song
To James Dalrymple Esq Orange savage hospitality of the country
To Miss Chalmers Feb 15Has en sequence of his late success hi life
To the same June 23Requests him than an F olian harp can refuse its tones
To Peter Hill Edinburgh Oct 1 attached himself to a good wife and shaken
To Mr MAuley of Dumbarton June
To Robert Ainslie June 8Life is character
absolutely disqualify in some degree for the poems of Michael Bruce
To Mrs Graham of Fintray Jan of woe
To William Smcllie Jan 22Cha CCXXXIV To Miss KennedyFaint sketches
To Miss Benson Mar 21Pleasure rupted friendship
To Colonel W Dunbar Not yet 16His loss of appetite still continues shall not need his kind offer to bring him
To Mrs Dunlop Dee 20Has the To Mr Bumess Montrose from John Lew ars July 23Announcing the death of
To RUBKRT RIPDEL Eso Observations VI Jon 26 His favourite feature in Miltons
Connexion between love music VII Jan 27 Impertinence of fools
Prefatory Remarks 752 the worldinnocence 764 XVI Feb 10 Invocation to Heavenvows
oerhang my dwelling
She rose and let me in

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Page 226 - That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble Has cost thee mony a weary nibble! Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble, But house or hald, To thole the winter's sleety dribble, An' cranreuch cauld! But Mousie, thou art no thy lane, In proving foresight may be vain: The best laid schemes o' mice an' men, Gang aft agley, An' lea'e us nought but grief an
Page 236 - How Abram was the friend of God on high; Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage 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.
Page 237 - And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pride, Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best, For them and for their little ones provide; But, chiefly, in their hearts with Grace Divine preside.
Page 231 - 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 225 - Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie, O, what a panic's in thy breastie! Thou need na start awa sae hasty, Wi
Page 56 - Wallace's undaunted heart ; Who dar'd to, nobly, stem tyrannic pride, Or nobly die, the second glorious part, (The patriot's God, peculiarly thou art, His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward !) O never, never, Scotia's realm desert, But still the patriot, and the patriot -bard, In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard ! MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN.
Page 304 - O'er a' the ills o' life victorious ! But pleasures are like poppies spread, You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed ; Or like the snow falls in the river, A moment white — then melts for ever ; Or like the Borealis race, That flit ere you can point their place ; Or like the Rainbow's lovely form Evanishing amid the storm. — Nae man can tether Time nor Tide, The hour approaches Tarn maun ride ; That hour, o...
Page 236 - I've paced much this weary, mortal round, And sage experience bids me this declare: — If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare, One cordial in this melancholy vale, 'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair In other's arms breathe out the tender tale, Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale.
Page 235 - My loved, my honored, much respected friend! No mercenary bard his homage pays; With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end, My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise: To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, The lowly train in life's sequestered scene; The native feelings strong, the guileless ways; What Aiken in a cottage would have been; Ah!
Page 5 - You know our country custom of coupling a man and woman together as partners in the labours of harvest. In my fifteenth autumn my partner was a bewitching creature, a year younger than myself. My scarcity of English denies me the power of doing her justice in that language ; but you know the Scottish idiom — she was a bonnie, sweet, sonsie lass.

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