#ScottishWriters
Chorus.'MY lady’s gown, there’s… And gowden flowers sae rare upon’t… But Jenny’s jimps and jirkinet, My lord thinks meikle mair upon’t. My lord a-hunting he is gone,
O LEAVE novels, 1 ye Mauchline… Ye’re safer at your spinning-wheel… Such witching books are baited hoo… For rakish rooks, like Rob Mossgi… Your fine Tom Jones and Grandiso…
O THOU Great Being! what Thou… Surpasses me to know; Yet sure I am, that known to Thee Are all Thy works below. Thy creature here before Thee sta…
Chorus’Long, long the night, Heavy comes the morrow While my soul’s delight Is on her bed of sorrow. CAN I cease to care?
When biting Boreas, fell and dour… Sharp shivers thro’ the leafless b… When Phoebus gies a short—liv’d g… Far south the lift, Dim—dark’ning thro’ the flaky show…
John Anderson my jo, John, When we were first acquent, Your locks were like the raven, Your bonny brow was brent; But now your brow is bled, John,
Is there a whim-inspired fool, Owre fast for thought, owre hot fo… Owre blate to seek, owre proud to… Let him draw near; And owre this grassy heap sing doo…
A Guide New-year I wish thee, Ma… Hae, there’s a ripp to thy auld ba… Tho’ thou’s howe-backit now, an’ k… I’ve seen the day There could hae gaen like ony stag…
FRAE the friends and land I love… Driv’n by Fortune’s felly spite; Frae my best belov’d I rove, Never mair to taste delight: Never mair maun hope to find
Is there, for honest poverty, That hings his head, an’ a’ that? The coward slave, we pass him by, We dare be poor for a’ that! For a’ that, an’ a’ that,
O DEATH! thou tyrant fell and b… The meikle devil wi’ a woodie Haurl thee hame to his black smidd… O’er hurcheon hides, And like stock-fish come o’er his…
HE who of Rankine sang, lies stif… And a green grassy hillock hides h… Alas! alas! a devilish change inde…
My love, she’s but a lassie yet, My love, she’s but a lassie yet! We’ll let her stand a year or twa, She’ll no be half sae saucy yet! I rue the day I sought her, O!
Wee, modest, crimson—tippèd flow’r… Thou’s met me in an evil hour; For I maun crush amang the stoure Thy slender stem: To spare thee now is past my pow’r…
Chorus’O gude ale comes and gud… Gude ale gars me sell my hose, Sell my hose, and pawn my shoon’ Gude ale keeps my heart aboon! I HAD sax owsen in a pleugh,