All under her cow, as she sat a-milking,Saying, I shall be married, next Monday morning.You fairest of all creatures, my eyes e’er beheld,Oh! Where do you live love, or where do you dwell,I dwell at the top of yon bonny brown hill,I shall be fifteen years old next Monday morning.Fifteen years old love, is too…
They hae slain the Earl of Murray,And hae laid him on the green.Now wae be to thee, Huntley!And whairfore did ye sae!I bade you bring him wi’ you,But forbade you him to slay.He was a braw gallant,And he rid at the ring;Ana the bonny Earl of Murray,O he might hae been a king!He was a…
Digesting a mans sayings –A sneakthief nibbling in the shadowsAt the shape of a poet`s thunderous phrases –How unutterably strange!And the pilfering parasite none the wiserFor the words he has swallowed.
She’ll be comin’ round the mountain,When she comes.She’ll be comin’ round the mountain,She’ll be comin’ round the mountain,She’ll be comin’ round the mountain,When she comes.She’ll be drivin’ six white horses,When she comes.She’ll be drivin’ six white horses,When she comes.She’ll be drivin’ six white horses,She’ll be drivin’ six white horses,She’ll be drivin’ six white horses,When she…
Said Edom o’ Gordon to his men,‘We maun draw to a hauld.‘And whatna hauld sall we draw to,My merry men and me?We will gae to the house of the Rodes,To see that fair ladye.’The lady stood on her castle wa’,Beheld baith dale and down;There she was aware of a host of menCame riding towards the…
Yet still I wish, though still deny,Ay me!I sigh, I mourn, and say that stillI only live my joys to kill,Ay me !I feed the pain that on me feeds,Ay me!My wound I stop not, though it bleeds,Ay me!Heart, be content, it must be so,For springs were made to overflow,Ay me!Then sigh and weep, and…
Christ, that my love were in my arms,And I in my bed again!
In secret places most I seek to hide me,For he who feeds me never can abide me.
October 1787Mr. Urban, Sept.24.The following Epilogue to ‘The Padlock’ was written by a very worthy Clergyman, soon after the first representation of that opera. The author of this little poem died in the Summer of 1786, and, having never been published, a copy of it is presented to your Magazine, by one who agrees in…
The voice of thunderWithin the dark cloudAgain and again it sounds,The voice that beautifies the land.The voice that beautifies the land!The voice below,The voice of the grasshopperAmong the plantsAgain and again it sounds,The voice that beautifies the land.
