Poems, Chiefly in the Scottish Dialect, Bind 1Adam Neill and Company, 1800 - 287 sider |
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Side 25
... restriction On Aquavitae ; An ' rouse them up to strong conviction , An ' move their pity . Stand forth , an ' tell yon Premier Youth , The honest , open , naked truth : Tell F Tell him o ' mine an ' Scotland's drouth ( 25 )
... restriction On Aquavitae ; An ' rouse them up to strong conviction , An ' move their pity . Stand forth , an ' tell yon Premier Youth , The honest , open , naked truth : Tell F Tell him o ' mine an ' Scotland's drouth ( 25 )
Side 63
... honest Wabfter to his trade , • Whase wife's twa nieves were fcarce weel • bred , ' Gat tippence - worth to mend her head , • When it was fair ; The wife flade cannie to her bed , But ne'er spak mair . ' A countra Laird had ta'en the ...
... honest Wabfter to his trade , • Whase wife's twa nieves were fcarce weel • bred , ' Gat tippence - worth to mend her head , • When it was fair ; The wife flade cannie to her bed , But ne'er spak mair . ' A countra Laird had ta'en the ...
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Almindelige termer og sætninger
aith Amang ance Auld Brig baith Bard blate bleft bonie braw breaſt BRIG brunstane canna cloſe countra Cuifs curfed dear Deil douce e'en e'er Ev'n ev'ry faft fair fhall fide fight filly fimple fing firft focial fome fome day foul frae ftan ftane ftill fure gang gaun gies glaſs guid Halloween hame heart Heav'n himfel honeft Hornbook houſe ither Juft juſt laffes laft Laigh Kirk Laird lefs leuk loft Mailie Mailie's dead maun monie muckle Mufe muſt mutchkin Nae mair ne'er night o'er out-owre owre pleaſure poor pow'r Profe raiſe rhyme rifing ruftic Samfon's dead Scotch Scotland ſee ſhe ſpeed Tam Samfon's dead tell thee thegither There's thou thrang thro unco warft weary weel Weft Whare Whyles ye'll ye're
Populære passager
Side 47 - Leeze me on Drink ! it gi'es us mair Than either School or College : It kindles Wit, it waukens Lair, It pangs us fou o
Side 217 - It's no in making 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. Think ye, that sic as you and I, Wha drudge and drive thro...
Side 34 - To stan" or rin, Till skelp — a shot — they're aff, a' throw'ther, To save their skin. But bring a Scotsman frae his hill, Clap in his cheek a Highland gill, Say, such is royal George's will, An' there's the foe, He has nae thought but how to kill Twa at a blow.
Side 159 - Gies now and then a wallop, What ragings must his veins convulse That still eternal gallop: Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail, Right on ye scud your sea-way; But in the teeth o' baith to sail, It maks an unco leeway.
Side 191 - Whyles owre a linn the burnie plays, As thro' the glen it wimpl't; Whyles round a rocky scar it strays; Whyles in a wiel it dimpl't; Whyles glitter'd to the nightly rays, Wi' bickerin, dancin dazzle ; Whyles cookit underneath the braes, Below the spreading hazel, Unseen that night.
Side 161 - 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.
Side 106 - An' now, auld Cloots, I ken ye're thinkin, A certain Bardie's rantin, drinkin, Some luckless hour will send him linkin, To your black pit ; But, faith ! he'll turn a corner jinkin, An
Side 100 - To scaud poor wretches! Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee, An' let poor damned bodies be; I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie, Ev'n to a deil, To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me, An' hear us squeel! Great is thy pow'r, an' great thy fame; Far kend an' noted is thy name; An' tho' yon lowin heugh's thy hame, Thou travels far; An' faith! thou's neither lag nor lame, Nor blate nor scaur. Whyles, ranging like a roarin lion For prey, a...
Side 231 - Too justly I may fear! Still caring, despairing, Must be my bitter doom; My woes here shall close ne'er But with the closing tomb!
Side 159 - And (what's aft mair than a' the lave) Your better art o' hidin'. Think, when your Castigated pulse Gies now and then a wallop ! What ragings must his veins convulse, That still eternal gallop ! Wi