The Poetry of Robert Burns, Том 2

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T. C. and E. C. Jack, 1896

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Страница 16 - With the ready trick and fable, Round we wander all the day ; And at night, in barn or stable, Hug our doxies on the hay. A fig, &c. Does the train-attended carriage Thro' the country lighter rove ? Does the sober bed of marriage Witness brighter scenes of love ? A fig, &c.
Страница 295 - Yet nature's charms, the hills and woods, The sweeping vales, and foaming floods, Are free alike to all.
Страница 23 - A' for Thy glory, And no for onie guid or ill They've done before Thee! 1 bless and praise Thy matchless might, When thousands Thou hast left in night, That I am here before Thy sight, For gifts an' grace A burning and a shining light To a
Страница 266 - No sculptured marble here, nor pompous lay, ' No storied urn nor animated bust ;' This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way To pour her sorrows o'er her poet's dust.
Страница 8 - And now a widow, I must mourn The pleasures that will ne'er return ; No comfort but a hearty can, When I think on John Highlandman. Sing, hey, &c. 1C V. RECITATIVO. A pigmy scraper wi...
Страница 16 - A fig for those by law protected! Liberty's a glorious feast! Courts for cowards were erected. Churches built to please the priest.
Страница 220 - Mark ruffian Violence, distain'd with crimes, Rousing elate in these degenerate times ; View unsuspecting Innocence a prey, As guileful Fraud points out the erring way ; While subtle Litigation's pliant tongue The life-blood equal sucks of Right and Wrong ! Evidently this is not the real Burns, or his name and fame would have disappeared long ago.
Страница 25 - I'll ne'er lift a lawless leg Again upon her. Besides I farther maun allow, Wi' Lizzie's lass, three times I trow — But, Lord, that Friday I was fou, When I cam near her, Or else thou kens thy servant true Wad never steer Her.
Страница 450 - By special grant of the managers to Robert Burns, who erected this stone, this burial-place is to remain for ever sacred to the memory of Robert Fergusson.
Страница 102 - And wi' the lave ilk merry morn Could rank my rig and lass, Still shearing, and clearing The tither stocked raw, Wi' claivers, an' haivers, Wearing the day awa : Ev'n then a wish, (I mind its power,) A wish that to my latest hour Shall strongly heave my breast ; That I for poor auld Scotland's sake, Some usefu' plan, or beuk could make, Or sing a sang at least.

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