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appear beauty bloom bonny bosom breast bright charms cheek cold dark dear death deep delight died dream fair fate father fear feel flower frae genius give grave hand happy head hear heart heaven hills hope hour I'll kind known lady land lassie leave light live look lover maid mair Mary meet mind morning mountain native nature ne'er never night o'er peace piece pleasure poem poet poor present published respecting rest rose round scenes side sigh sing sleep smile song soon sorrow soul sound spirit sweet tear tell thee there's thine thou thought tree true Twas wander wave weary weep wild Willy winds written young youth
Side 279 - Go, lovely Rose! Tell her, that wastes her time and me, That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be. Tell her that's young And shuns to have her graces spied, That hadst thou sprung In deserts, where no men abide, Thou must have uncommended died. 226 Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retired: Bid her come forth, Suffer herself to be desired, And not blush so to be admired.
Side 5 - We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow ! Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him ; But little hell reck if they let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him...
Side 381 - Row, brothers, row ! the stream runs fast, The rapids are near, and the daylight's past!
Side 411 - Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies, Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten,— In folly ripe, in reason rotten. Thy belt of straw and ivy buds, Thy coral clasps and amber studs,— All these in me no means can move To come to thee and be thy love.
Side 265 - No rude sound shall reach thine ear, Armour's clang, or war-steed champing, Trump nor pibroch summon here, Mustering clan, or squadron tramping. Yet the lark's shrill fife may come At the daybreak from the fallow, And the bittern sound his drum, Booming from the sedgy shallow. Ruder sounds shall none be near, Guards nor warders challenge here, Here's no war-steed's neigh and champing, Shouting clans or squadrons stamping.
Side 408 - Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle. A gown made of the finest wool, Which from our pretty lambs we pull, Fair lined slippers for the cold, With buckles of the purest gold.
Side 4 - By the struggling moonbeam's misty light And the lantern dimly burning. No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest With his martial cloak around him. Few and short were the prayers we said, And -we spoke not a word of sorrow; But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
Side 16 - MINE be a cot beside the hill; A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear A willowy brook, that turns a mill, With many a fall shall linger near. The swallow, oft beneath my thatch, Shall twitter from her clay-built nest; Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch, And share my meal, a welcome guest.