#ScottishWriters
Star high, Baby low: ‘Twixt the two Wise men go; Find the baby,
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
ALAS, my tent! see through it a… Moaning, poor Fancy’s doves are s… I sit alone, a sorrow half asleep, My consciousness the blackness all… No pilgrim I, a homeless wanderer…
King Cole he reigned in Aureoland… But the sceptre was seldom in his… Far oftener was there his golden c… He ate too much, but he drank all… To be called a king and to be a ki…
Above my head the great pine-branc… Backwards and forwards each to the… Beckoning the tempest-cloud which… Like a slow-laboured thought, heav… Hark to the patter of the coming s…
Oh! the bonny, bonny dell, whaur t… Wi’ a clip o’ the sunshine atween… Whaur the birks are a’ straikit wi… And the brume hings its lamps by d… Whaur the burnie comes trottin owe…
‘Shew us the Father.’ Chiming sta… And lives that fit the worlds, and… A Thought that holds them up reve… A Wisdom we have been made wise t… And, looking out from sweetest Na…
It’s all very well, Said the Bell, To be the big Organ below! But the folk come and go, Said the Bell,
I know what beauty is, for thou Hast set the world within my heart… Of me thou madest it a part; I never loved it more than now. I know the Sabbath afternoons;
Queen Mary one day Jesus sent To fetch some water, legends tell; The little boy, obedient, Drew a full pitcher from the well; But as he raised it to his head,
A fresh young voice that sings to… So often many a simple thing, Should surely not unanswered be By all that I can sing. Dear voice, be happy every way
I.-BY THE CRADLE. Close her eyes: she must not peep! Let her little puds go slack; Slide away far into sleep: Sis will watch till she comes back…
Came of old to houses lonely Men with wings, but did not show t… Angels come to our house, only, For their wings, they do not know…
I came upon a fountain on my way When it was hot, and sat me down t… Its sparkling stream, when all aro… I spied full many vessels made of… Whereon were written, not without…
‘WHO is this little one lying,’ Said Time, ‘at my garden-gate, Moaning and sobbing and crying, Out in the cold so late?’ ‘They lurked until we came near,