At present we will ask no more—
Let William Hislop give the spirit.
Similar Posts
SWEET flow’ret, pledge o’ meikle love,
What heart o’ stane wad thou na move,Sae helpless, sweet, and fair?November hirples o’er the lea,Chill, on thy lovely form:And gane, alas! the shelt’ring tree,Should shield thee frae the storm.May He who gives the rain to pour,And wings the blast to blaw,Protect thee frae the driving show’r,The bitter frost and snaw.May He, the friend o’…
YE flowery banks o’ bonnie Doon,
How can ye chant, ye little birds,And I sae fu’ o’ care!Thou’ll break my heart, thou bonnie bird,That sings upon the bough;Thou minds me o’ the happy daysWhen my fause luve was true.Thou’ll break my heart, thou bonnie bird,That sings beside thy mate;For sae I sat, and sae I sang,And wistna o’ my fate.Aft hae…
ORTHODOX! orthodox, who believe in John Knox,
A heretic blast has been blown in the West,That what is no sense must be nonsense,Orthodox! That what is no sense must be nonsense.Doctor Mac! Doctor Mac, you should streek on a rack,To strike evil-doers wi’ terror:To join Faith and Sense, upon any pretence,Was heretic, damnable error,Doctor Mac! 1 ‘Twas heretic, damnable error.Town of Ayr!…
Inhuman man! curse on thy barb’rous art,
May never pity soothe thee with a sigh,Nor never pleasure glad thy cruel heart!Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and field,The bitter little of life that remains!No more the thickening brakes and verdant plainsTo thee shall home, or food, or pastime yield.Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted rest,No more of rest, but now…
A Tale
Gawin Douglas.When chapman billies leave the street,And drouthy neibors neibors meet;As market days are wearing late,And folk begin to tak the gate,While we sit bousing at the nappy,An’ getting fou and unco happy,We think na on the lang Scots miles,The mosses, waters, slaps and stiles,That lie between us and our hame,Where sits our sulky, sullen…
TO you, sir, this summons I’ve sent,
But if you demand what I want,I honestly answer you—naething.Ne’er scorn a poor Poet like me,For idly just living and breathing,While people of every degreeAre busy employed about—naething.Poor Centum-per-centum may fast,And grumble his hurdies their claithing,He’ll find, when the balance is cast,He’s gane to the devil for—naething.The courtier cringes and bows,Ambition has likewise its plaything;A…