#ScottishWriters
“WHA is that at my bower-door?” “O wha is it but Findlay!” “Then gae your gate, ye’se nae be… “Indeed maun I,” quo’ Findlay; “What mak’ ye, sae like a thief?”
O, were my love yon lilac fair Wi’ purple blossoms to the spring, And I a bird to shelter there, When wearied on my little wing. How I wad mourn when it was torn
O RAGING Fortune’s withering b… Has laid my leaf full low, O! O raging Fortune’s withering blas… Has laid my leaf full low, O! My stem was fair, my bud was green…
WHERE, braving angry winter’s st… The lofty Ochils rise, Far in their shade my Peggy’s cha… First blest my wondering eyes; As one who by some savage stream
HERE lies John Bushby’honest… Cheat him, Devil’if you can!
Talk not of love, it gives me pain… For love has been my foe; He bound me in an iron chain, And plung’d me deep in woe. But friendship’s pure and lasting…
On Seeing One on a Lady’s Bonnet… Ha! whare ye gaun’ ye crowlin ferl… Your impudence protects you sairly… I canna say but ye strunt rarely Owre gauze and lace,
Guid—Mornin’ to our Majesty! May Heaven augment your blisses On ev’ry new birth—day ye see, A humble poet wishes. My bardship here, at your Levee
On Cessnock banks a lassie dwells… Could I describe her shape and mi… Our lasses a’ she far excels—— An she has twa sparkling, rogueish… She’s sweeter than the morning daw…
When chapman billies leave the str… And drouthy neebors neebors meet, As market—days are wearing late, And folk begin to tak the gate; While we sit bousin, at the nappy,
O MAY, thy morn was ne’er so swe… As the mirk night o’ December! For sparkling was the rosy wine, And private was the chamber: And dear was she I dare na name,
IN Politics if thou would’st mix, And mean thy fortunes be; Bear this in mind, be deaf and bli… Let great folk hear and see.
LET not Woman e’er complain Of inconstancy in love; Let not Woman e’er complain Fickle Man is apt to rove: Look abroad thro’ Nature’s range,
Inhuman man! curse on thy barb’rou… And blasted by thy murder—aiming e… May never pity soothe thee with a… Nor never pleasure glad thy cruel… Go live, poor wanderer of the wood…
O COULD I give thee India’s we… As I this trifle send; Because thy joy in both would be To share them with a friend. But golden sands did never grace