#ScottishWriters
NO Spartan tube, no Attic shell, No lyre Ãolian I awake; 'Tis liberty’s bold note I swell, Thy harp, Columbia, let me take! See gathering thousands, while I…
STILL anxious to secure your par… And not less anxious, sure, this n… A Prologue, Epilogue, or some suc… 'Twould vamp my bill, said I, if… So sought a poet, roosted near the…
There’s nane that’s blest of human… But the cheerful and the gay, man, Fal, la, la, &c. Here’s a bottle and an honest frie… What wad ye wish for mair, man?
OF Lordly acquaintance you boast, And the Dukes that you dined wi’… Yet an insect’s an insect at most, Tho’ it crawl on the curl of a Qu…
AFAR 1 the illustrious Exile roa… Whom kingdoms on this day should h… An inmate in the casual shed, On transient pity’s bounty fed, Haunted by busy memory’s bitter ta…
FAREWEEL to a’ our Scottish fa… Fareweel our ancient glory; Fareweel ev’n to the Scottish nam… Sae fam’d in martial story. Now Sark rins over Solway sands,
HAIL, thairm-inspirin’, rattlin’… Tho’ fortune’s road be rough an’ h… To every fiddling, rhyming billie, We never heed, But take it like the unback’d fill…
There’s nane that’s blest of human… But the cheerful and the gay, man. Here’s a bottle and an honest frie… What wad ye wish for mair, man? Wha kens, before his life may end,
ANNA, thy charms my bosom fire, And waste my soul with care; But ah! how bootless to admire, When fated to despair! Yet in thy presence, lovely Fair,
WHILE larks, with little wing, Fann’d the pure air, Tasting the breathing Spring, Forth I did fare: Gay the sun’s golden eye
EARTH’D up, here lies an imp o’… Planted by Satan’s dibble; Poor silly wretch, he’s damned him… To save the Lord the trouble.
Among the heathy hills and ragged… The roaring Fyers pours his mossy… Till full he dashes on the rocky m… Where, thro’ a shapeless breach, h… As high in air the bursting torren…
Scots, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled, Scots, wham Bruce has aften led, Welcome to your gory bed, Or to victory! Now’s the day, and now’s the hour;
THOU flatt’ring mark of friendsh… Still may thy pages call to mind The dear, the beauteous donor; Tho’ sweetly female ev’ry part, Yet such a head, and more the hear…
O THOU whom Poetry abhors, Whom Prose has turnèd out of doo… Heard’st thou yon groan?'proceed… 'Twas laurel’d Martial calling mu…