#AmericanWriters
Beyond the Cheviots and the Tweed… Beyond the Firth of Forth, My memory returns at speed To Scotland and the North. For still I keep, and ever shall,
When one who has wandered out of t… Which leads to the hills of joy, Whose heart has grown both cold an… Though it be but the heart of a bo… When such a one turns back his fee…
Never was sun so bright before, No matin of the lark so sweet, No grass so green beneath my feet, Nor with such dewdrops jewelled o’… I stand with thee outside the door…
You found my life, a poor lame bir… That had no heart to sing, You would not speak the magic word To give it voice and wing. Yet sometimes, dreaming of that ho…
When one is young and eager, A bejant and a boy, Though his moustache be meagre, That cannot mar his joy When at the Competition
As I was walking down the street A week ago, Near Henderson’s I chanced to mee… A man I know. His name is Alexander Bell,
Through many lands and over many s… I come, my Brother, to thine obse… To pay thee the last honours that… And call upon thy voiceless dust,… Since cruel fate has robbed me eve…
O Love, thine empire is not dead, Nor will we let thy worship go, Although thine early flush be fled… Thine ardent eyes more faintly glo… And thy light wings be fallen slow
As I, with hopeless love o’erthro… With love o’erthrown, with love o’… And this is truth I tell, As I, with hopeless love o’erthro… Was sadly walking all alone,
I met him down upon the pier, His eyes were wild and sad, And something in them made me fear That he was going mad. So, being of a prudent sort,
Dear Ritchie, I am waiting for th… And tell me that the visit which h… Is to be a thing of now, and no mo… Dear Ritchie, I am waiting. The sea is at its bluest, and the…
Love, we have heard together The North Sea sing his tune, And felt the wind’s wild feather Brush past our cheeks at noon, And seen the cloudy weather
If a pleasant lawn there grow By the showers caressed, Where in all the seasons blow Flowers gaily dressed, Where by handfuls one may win
He brought a team from Inversnaid To play our Third Fifteen, A man whom none of us had played And very few had seen. He weighed not less than eighteen…
Last Sunday night I read the sadd… Of the unanswered love of fair El… The 'faith unfaithful’ and the joy… Of Lancelot, ‘groaning in remorse… I thought of all those nights in w…