But O respect his lordship’s taste,
And spare his golden bindings.
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THE WINTER it is past, and the summer comes at last
Now ev’ry thing is glad, while I am very sad,Since my true love is parted from me.The rose upon the breer, by the waters running clear,May have charms for the linnet or the bee;Their little loves are blest, and their little hearts at rest,But my true love is parted from me.
YE gallants bright, I rede you right,
Her comely face sae fu’ o’ grace,Your heart she will trepan:Her een sae bright, like stars by night,Her skin sae like the swan;Sae jimply lac’d her genty waist,That sweetly ye might span.Youth, Grace, and Love attendant move,And pleasure leads the van:In a’ their charms, and conquering arms,They wait on bonie Ann.The captive bands may chain…
Thou lingering star, with less’ning ray,
Again thou usherast in the dayMy Mary from my soul was torn.O Mary, dear departed shadeWhere is thy place of blissful rest?See’st thou thy lover lowly laid?Hear’st thou the groans that rend his breast?That sacred hour can I forget?Can I forget the hallow’d groveWhere, by the winding Ayr, we met,To live one day of parting…
1 Is there, for honest poverty,
3 The coward slave, we pass him by,4 We dare be poor for a’ that!5 For a’ that, an’ a’ that,6 Our toils obscure, an’ a’ that;7 The rank is but the guinea’s stamp;8 The man’s the gowd for a’ that,9 What tho’ on hamely fare we dine,10 Wear hoddin-gray, an’ a’ that;11 Gie fools…
When biting Boreas, fell and doure,
When Phoebus gies a short-liv’d glow’r,Far south the lift,Dim-dark’ning thro’ the flaky show’r,Or whirling drift:Ae night the storm the steeples rocked,Poor Labour sweet in sleep was locked,While burns, wi’ snawy wreeths upchoked,Wild-eddying swirl,Or thro’ the mining outlet bocked,Down headlong hurl.List’ning, the doors an’ winnocks rattle,I thought me on the ourie cattle,Or silly sheep, wha bide…
THE SIMPLE Bard, rough at the rustic plough,
The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush,Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the green thorn bush;The soaring lark, the perching red-breast shrill,Or deep-ton’d plovers grey, wild-whistling o’er the hill;Shall he—nurst in the peasant’s lowly shed,To hardy independence bravely bred,By early poverty to hardship steel’d.And train’d to arms in stern Misfortune’s field—Shall he be guilty of…