The Works of Robert Burns: Correspondence with Mr. George Thomson, including poetry hitherto unpublished

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T. Cadell and W. Davies, 1806
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Page 126 - Let him follow me! By oppression's woes and pains! By your sons in servile chains! We will drain our dearest veins, But they shall be free! Lay the proud usurpers low! Tyrants fall in every foe! Liberty's in every blow!
Page 331 - My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.
Page 17 - YE banks and braes and streams around The castle o' Montgomery, Green be your woods, and fair your flowers. Your waters never drumlie! There simmer first unfauld her robes, And there the langest tarry; For there I took the last fareweel O
Page 293 - Of a' the airts the wind can blaw I dearly like the West, For there the bonnie lassie lives, The lassie I lo'e best : There wild woods grow, and rivers row, And mony a hill between ; But day and night my fancy's flight Is ever wi' my Jean. I see her in the dewy flowers, I see her sweet and fair : I hear her in the tunefu' birds, I hear her charm the air : There's not a bonnie flower that springs By fountain, shaw, or green, There's not a bonnie bird that sings But minds me o
Page 217 - He looks and laughs at a' that. A prince can mak a belted knight, A marquis, duke, and a' that ; But an honest man's aboon his might, Guid faith he mauna fa' that ! For a
Page 122 - CHORUS. For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne, We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, For auld lang syne. We twa hae run about the braes, And pu'd the gowans fine ; But we've wander'd mony a weary foot Sin auld lang syne.
Page 216 - Is there, for honest Poverty, That hangs his head, and a' that! The coward slave, we pass him by, We dare be poor for a
Page 343 - That's sweetly play'd in tune. As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, So deep in luve am I : And I will luve thee still, my dear, Till a...
Page 42 - 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 302 - JOHN ANDERSON MY JO. JOHN Anderson my jo, John, When we were first acquent, Your locks were like the raven, Your bonnie brow was brent ; But now your brow is beld, John, Your locks are like the snaw ; But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson my jo. John Anderson my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither ; And mony a canty day, John, We've had wi...