#BalladesYRhymes #ScottishWriters
A. Ye Highlands, and ye Lawlands Oh where have you been? They have slain the Earl of Murra… And they layd him on the green.
“And now am I greatly repenting t… ’Tis thought Odysseus when the st… With all the waves and wars, a wea… Grew restless in his disenchanted… And still would watch the sunset,…
Now the light of the sun, in the n… Shines, and their city is girt wit… And deep is the shade of the woods… Sings of the sea, and is sweet fro… Green is their garden and orchard,…
Rome does right well to censure al… Talk of Jansenius, and of them wh… That earthly joys are damnable! ’… We need not charge at Heaven as a… No, amble on! We’ll gain it, one…
O Rose the Red and White Lilly, Their mother dear was dead, And their father married an ill wo… Wishd them twa little guede. Yet she had twa as fu fair sons
(Sidero, the stepmother of Tyro,… At fierce Sidero’s word the thral… And shore the locks of Tyro,—like… They fell in golden harvest,—but f… The maiden shuddered in her pain a…
When strawberry pottles are common… Ere elms be black, or limes be ser… When midnight dances are murdering… Then comes in the sweet o’ the yea… And far from Fleet Street, far fr…
‘Rise up, rise up now, Lord Dougl… ‘And put on your armour so bright; Let it never be said that a daught… Was married to a lord under night. ’Rise up, rise up, my seven bold s…
Hither, come hither, ye Clouds re… Come, though ye dwell on the sacre… Or whether ye dance with the Nere… Or whether your golden urns are di… Or whether you dwell by Mæotis me…
Down Deeside cam Inveraye Whistlin’ and playing, An’ called loud at Brackley gate Ere the day dawning— ‘Come, Gordon of Brackley.
The man whom once, Melpomene, Thou look’st on with benignant sig… Shall never at the Isthmus be A boxer eminent in fight, Nor fares he foremost in the fligh…
Long life hath taught me many thin… That lukewarm loves for men who di… Weak wine of liking let them mix a… Not Love, that stings the soul wi… Happy, who wears his love-bonds li…
I went to the mill, but the miller… I sat me down, and cried ochone! To think on the days that are past… Of Dickie Macphalion that’s slain… Shoo, shoo, shoolaroo,
The burden of hard hitting: slog a… Here shalt thou make a “five” and… And then upon thy bat shalt lean,… That thou art in for an uncommon s… Yea, the loud ring applauding thee…
AS one that for a weary space has… Lull’d by the song of Circe and h… In gardens near the pale of Prose… Where that Aeaean isle forgets th… And only the low lutes of love com…