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aetion Allan Cunningham Allan Ramsay aneient auld baek baith beauty beeame blaek bonnie born bosom braes breast busk danee dear death e'en e'er eaeh ealled eame eare eastle eause Edinburgh eelebrated ehange eharms eheek eheer ehief ehild elean elear eliffs elose elouds Elspa eolleetion eome eopy eould eountry eourse eried erown faee fair faney fieree flowers frae glen graee green gude ha'e heart heaven hill honour king Lady land lass lassie Lord lyrie maid mair maun morn mueh musie ne'er never night o'er onee peaee plaee poem poet poetieal Prinee raee reeeived reelined rieh Robert Burns roek round searee seeond seeret seorn Seotland Seots Seottish sigh sinee sing smile song soon soul sueh sweet tear thee thine thou voiee weel whieh wild wind Yarrow young youth
Page 481 - So stately his form, and so lovely her face, That never a hall such a galliard did grace; While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume; And the bride-maidens whispered, " Twere better by far To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar.
Page 355 - Then kneeling down to Heaven's Eternal King, The saint, the father, and the husband prays; Hope 'springs exulting on triumphant wing,' That thus they all shall meet in future days, There ever bask in uncreated rays, No more to sigh or shed the bitter tear, Together hymning their Creator's praise, In such society, yet still more dear, While circling Time moves round in an eternal sphere.
Page 480 - O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar...
Page 366 - Unseen, alane. There, in thy scanty mantle clad Thy snawie bosom sunward spread, Thou lifts thy unassuming head In humble guise ; But now the share uptears thy bed, And low thou lies ! Such is the fate of artless maid, Sweet floweret of the rural shade ! By love's simplicity betrayed, And guileless trust, Till she, like thee, all soiled, is laid Low i
Page 355 - From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs, That makes her loved at home, revered abroad: Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, 'An honest man's the noblest work of God;' And certes, in fair virtue's heavenly road, The cottage leaves the palace far behind; What is a lordling's pomp? a cumbrous load, Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refin'd!
Page 156 - There let the shepherd's flute, the virgin's lay, The prompting seraph, and the poet's lyre, Still sing the God of Seasons as they roll. For me, when I forget the darling theme, Whether the blossom blows, the summer ray Russets the plain, inspiring Autumn gleams ; Or winter rises in the blackening east ; Be my tongue mute, my fancy paint no more, And, dead to joy, forget my heart to beat...
Page 481 - mong Graemes of the Netherby clan ; Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran : There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee, But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see. So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?
Page 466 - Caledonia ! stern and wild, Meet nurse for a poetic child ! Land of brown heath and shaggy wood, Land of the mountain and the flood, Land of my sires ! what mortal hand Can e'er untie the filial band, That knits me to thy rugged strand ! Still, as I view each well-known scene, Think what is now, and what hath been, Seems as, to me, of all bereft, Sole friends thy woods and streams were left ; And thus I love them better still, Even in extremity of ill. By Yarrow's stream still let me stray, Though...
Page 491 - There is a calm for those who weep, A rest for weary pilgrims found ; And while the mouldering ashes sleep Low in the ground, " The Soul, of origin divine, GOD'S glorious image, freed from clay, In heaven's eternal sphere shall shine A star of day. " The SUN is but a spark of fire, A transient meteor in the sky ; The SOUL, immortal as its Sire, SHALL NEVER DIE.
Page 368 - Yestreen, when to the trembling string The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha', To thee my fancy took its wing, I sat, but neither heard nor saw: Tho' this was fair, and that was braw, And yon the toast of a' the town, I sigh'd and said amang them a'; — "Ye are na Mary Morison!