The Poems of Robert BurnsJ.M. Dent, 1898 - 331 страница |
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... ne'er forgather up , Wi ' ony blastit , moorland toop ; But aye keep mind to moop an ' mell , Wi ' sheep o ' credit like thysel ' ! " And now , my bairns , wi ' my last breath , I lea'e my blessin wi ' you baith : An ' when you think ...
... ne'er forgather up , Wi ' ony blastit , moorland toop ; But aye keep mind to moop an ' mell , Wi ' sheep o ' credit like thysel ' ! " And now , my bairns , wi ' my last breath , I lea'e my blessin wi ' you baith : An ' when you think ...
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... ne'er cam nigh him , Than Mailie dead . I wat she was a sheep o ' sense , An ' could behave hersel ' wi ' mense : I'll say't , she never brak a fence , Thro ' thievish greed . Our bardie , lanely , keeps the spence Sin ' Mailie's dead ...
... ne'er cam nigh him , Than Mailie dead . I wat she was a sheep o ' sense , An ' could behave hersel ' wi ' mense : I'll say't , she never brak a fence , Thro ' thievish greed . Our bardie , lanely , keeps the spence Sin ' Mailie's dead ...
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... Ne'er thinkin they wad fash me for't ; But , Deil - ma - care ! Somebody tells the poacher - court The hale affair . Some auld , us'd hands had taen a note , 6 POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS.
... Ne'er thinkin they wad fash me for't ; But , Deil - ma - care ! Somebody tells the poacher - court The hale affair . Some auld , us'd hands had taen a note , 6 POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS.
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... ne'er gat sic a twistle , Sin ' I hae min ' . O , sirs ! whae'er wad hae expeckit Your duty ye wad sae negleckit , Ye wha were ne'er by lairds respeckit To wear the plaid ; But by the brutes themselves eleckit , To be their guide . What ...
... ne'er gat sic a twistle , Sin ' I hae min ' . O , sirs ! whae'er wad hae expeckit Your duty ye wad sae negleckit , Ye wha were ne'er by lairds respeckit To wear the plaid ; But by the brutes themselves eleckit , To be their guide . What ...
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... things are shar'd : How best o'chiels are whiles in want , While coofs on countless thousands rant , And ken na how to wair't ; ; But , Davie , lad , ne'er fash your 16 POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS Epistle to Davie, a Brother Poet.
... things are shar'd : How best o'chiels are whiles in want , While coofs on countless thousands rant , And ken na how to wair't ; ; But , Davie , lad , ne'er fash your 16 POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS Epistle to Davie, a Brother Poet.
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Чести термини и фразе
aith amang ance auld baith Balmaghie bard Beneath blate blest bonie BRIG brunstane Buy braw troggin cauld dear Death deil e'en e'er EPISTLE Ev'n ev'ry fair fate fear Fête Champêtre flow'rs frae gien gies grace gude guid hame hear heart Heaven hell himsel holy honest honour ither John Barleycorn Kilmarnock laird lasses leuk Lord Mauchline maun mony mourn muckle muse Nae mair Nature's ne'er never night noble o'er owre poet poor pow'r pride printed by Burns rhyme roar ROBERT BURNS round Samson's dead sang sark Scotia's Scotland sing skelpin sodger St Stephen's House sweet taen tell thee thegither There's thou thro unco waur weary weel Whare Whig whistle Willie winna wrang ye'll ye're
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Страница 245 - The doubling storm roars thro' the woods ; The lightnings flash from pole to pole; Near and more near the thunders roll : When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees, Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze; Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing ; And loud resounded mirth and dancing. Inspiring bold John Barleycorn ! What dangers thou canst make us scorn ! Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil; Wi' usquebae, we'll face the devil!
Страница 232 - THOU ling'ring star, with less'ning ray, That lov'st to greet the early morn, Again thou usher'st in the day My Mary from my soul was torn. O, Mary ! dear departed shade ! Where is thy place of blissful rest ? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?
Страница 191 - Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are, That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm, How shall your houseless heads and unfed sides, Your loop'd and window'd raggedness, defend you From seasons such as these ? O, I have ta'en Too little care of this ! Take physic, pomp ; Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel, That thou mayst shake the superflux to them, And show the heavens more just.
Страница 92 - 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.
Страница 169 - tis He alone , Decidedly can try us, He knows each chord — its various tone, Each spring — its various bias: Then at the balance let's be mute, We never can adjust it; What's done we partly may compute, But know not what's resisted.
Страница 72 - An' cozie here, beneath the blast, Thou thought to dwell — Till crash ! the cruel coulter past Out thro' thy cell. That wee bit heap o...
Страница 93 - Wallace's undaunted heart, Who dar'd to, nobly, stem tyrannic pride, Or nobly die, the second glorious part: (The patriot's God, peculiarly Thou art, His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!) O never, never Scotia's realm desert; But still the patriot, and the patriot-bard In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard...
Страница 236 - Wi' care nor thrall opprest. Now blooms the lily by the bank, The primrose down the brae ; The hawthorn's budding in the glen, And milk-white is the slae : The meanest hind in fair Scotland May rove their sweets amang ; But I the Queen of a' Scotland, Maun lie in prison strang.
Страница 71 - WEE, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie, O, what a panic's in thy breastie ! Thou need na start awa sae hasty, :• Wi...
Страница 87 - November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh; The short'ning winter-day is near a close; The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh; The black'ning trains o' craws to their repose: The toil-worn Cotter frae his labor goes, This night his weekly moil is at an end. Collects his spades, his mattocks and his hoes, Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend.