#ScottishWriters
O Mother Earth, I have a fear Which I would tell to thee– Softly and gently in thine ear When the moon and we are three. Thy grass and flowers are beautifu…
Sometimes, O Lord, thou lightest… A lamp that well might pharos all… Anon the light will neither rise n… Shrouded in danger gray the beacon… A pharos? Oh dull brain! poor dyi…
My wife contrived a fleecy thing Her husband to infold, For ’tis the pride of woman still To cover from the cold: My daughter made it a new text
Whan Andrew frae Strathbogie gaed The lift was lowerin dreary, The sun he wadna raise his heid, The win’ blew laich and eerie. In’s pooch he had a plack or twa–
Make not of thy heart a casket, Opening seldom, quick to close; But of bread a wide-mouthed basket… Or a cup that overflows.
When peevish flaws his soul have s… To fretful tears for crossed desir… Obedient to his mother’s word My child to banishment retires. As disappears the moon, when wind
Star high, Baby low: ‘Twixt the two Wise men go; Find the baby,
It’s all very well, Said the Bell, To be the big Organ below! But the folk come and go, Said the Bell,
God gives his child upon his slate… To find eternity in hours and year… With both sides covered, back the… His dim eyes swollen with shed and… God smiles, wipes clean the upper…
His face, his words, her heart awo… Awoke her slumbering truth; She judged him well; her bonds she… And fled to him for ruth. With tears she washed his weary fe…
THOU art of this world, Christ.… Thou know’st our evens, our morns,… How moons, and hearts, and seasons… How we grow weary plodding on the… Of future joy how present pain ber…
A tattered soldier, gone the glow… With wounds half healed, and sorel… Homeward I come, to claim no vict… I only faced the foe, and did not…
Chained is the Spring. The Night… Blows over the hard earth; Time is not more confused and cold… Nor keeps more wintry mirth. Yet blow, and roll the world about…
Here is a temple strangely wrought… Within it I can see Two spirits of a diverse thought Contend for mastery. One is an angel fair and bright,
What gars ye sing sae, birdie, As gien ye war lord o’ the lift? On breid ye’re an unco sma’ lairdi… But in hicht ye’ve a kingly gift! A’ ye hae to coont yersel rich in