#ScottishWriters
The sun is sinking in the west, Long grow the shadows dim; Have patience, sister, to be blest… Wait patiently for Him. Thou knowest love, much love hast…
Shepherd, on before thy sheep, Hear thy lamb that bleats behind! Scarce the track I stumbling keep… Through my thin fleece blows the w… Turn and see me, Son of Man!
FROM thine, as then, the healing… Into our hearts-that is the Fathe… From heart to heart it sinks, it s… From these that know thee still in… Here is my heart-from thine, Lord…
Lord, I’m an auld man, An’ I’m deein! An’ do what I can I canna help bein Some feart at the thoucht!
Thou foldest me in sickness; Thou callest through the cloud; I batter with the thickness Of the swathing, blinding shroud: Oh, let me see thy face,
THE song birds that come to me ni… Fly oft away and vanish if I slee… Nor to my fowling-net will one ret… Is the thing ever ours we cannot k… But their souls go not out into th…
Enough he labours for his hire; Yea, nought can pay his pain; But powers that wear and waste and… Need help to toil again. They give him freely all they can,
SO shall abundant entrance me be… Into the truth, my life’s inherita… Lo! as the sun shoots straight fro… God-floated, casting round a lordl… Into the corners of his endless ro…
There was a girl that lost things– Nor only from her hand; She lost, indeed-why, most things, As if they had been sand! She said, 'But I must use them,
Content Primroses, With hearts at rest in your thick… Peeping as from his mother’s lap t… Who courts shy shelter from his ow… Hanging Harebell,
Who know thee, love: thy life be s… That, ere the year be o’er, Each one who loves thee now so muc… Even God, may love thee more!
Love alone is great in might, Makes the heavy burden light, Smooths rough ways to weary feet, Makes the bitter morsel sweet: Love alone is strength!
Still am I haunting Thy door with my prayers; Still they are panting Up thy steep stairs! Wouldst thou not rather
‘What gars ye sing,’ said the herd… ‘What gars ye sing sae lood?’ ‘To tice them oot o’ the yerd, lad… The worms for my daily food.’ An’ aye he sang, an’ better he san…
Forth to his study the sculptor go… In a mood of lofty mirth: ‘Now shall the tongues of my carpi… Confess what my art is worth! In my brain last night the vision…
