Sonnet.
#ScottishWriters #BalladesYRhymes
Swift as sound of music fled When no more the organ sighs, Sped as all old days are sped, So your lips, love, and your eyes, So your gentle-voiced replies
For thee soft crowns in thine untr… I wove, my lady, and to thee I be… Thither no shepherd drives his flo… Nor scythe of steel has ever labou… Nay, through the spring among the…
DARK Lily without blame, Not upon us the shame, Whose sires were to the Auld Alli… They, by the Maiden’s side, Victorious fought and died;
Returning from what other seas Dost thou renew thy murmuring, Weak Tide, and hast thou aught of… To tell, the shores where float an… My love, my hope, my memories?
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…
In schomer, when the leves spryng, The bloschems on every bowe, So merey doyt the berdys syng Yn wodys merey now. Herkens, god yemen,
The soft wind from the south land… He set his strength to blow, From forests where Adonis bled, And lily flowers a-row: He crossed the straits like stream…
Our youth began with tears and sig… With seeking what we could not fin… Our verses all were threnodies, In elegiacs still we whined; Our ears were deaf, our eyes were…
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…
Foul fa’ the breast first treason… That Liddesdale may safely say: For in it there was baith meat and… And corn unto our geldings gay. We were stout-hearted men and true…
Money taketh town and wall, Fort and ramp without a blow; Money moves the merchants all, While the tides shall ebb and flow… Money maketh Evil show
Of all Gods Death alone Disdaineth sacrifice: No man hath found or shown The gift that Death would prize. In vain are songs or sighs,
Mysterious Benedetta! who That Reynolds or that Romney drew Was ever half so fair as you, Or is so well forgot? These eyes of melancholy brown,
In somer when the shawes be sheyne… And leves be large and longe, Hit is full mery in feyre foreste To here the foulys song. To se the dere draw to the dale,
My heart’s an old Spinet with str… To laughter chiefly tuned, but som… That Fate has practised hard on,… They answer not whoever sings. The ghosts of half-forgotten thing…