‘Why does your brand sae drop wi’… Edward, Edward? Why does your brand sae drop wi’ b… And why sae sad gang ye, O?’ ‘O I hae killed my hawk sae gude,

The graver by Apollo’s shrine, Before the Gods had fled, would s… A shell or onyx in his hand, To copy there the face divine, Till earnest touches, line by line…

Rob Roy from the Highlands cam, Unto the Lawlan’ border, To steal awa a gay ladie To haud his house in order. He cam oure the lock o’ Lynn,

Your hair and chin are like the ha… And chin Burne-Jones’s ladies wea… You were unfashionably fair In '83; And sad you were when girls are ga…

“The Ancestor remote of Man,” Says Darwin, “is th’ Ascidian,” A scanty sort of water-beast That, ninety million years at leas… Before Gorillas came to be,

Nay, be you pardoner or cheat, Or cogger keen, or mumper shy, You’ll burn your fingers at the fe… And howl like other folks that fry… All evil folks that love a lie!

Alas, for us no second spring, Like mallows in the garden-bed, For these the grave has lost his s… Alas, for us no second spring, Who sleep without awakening,

The ferox rins in rough Loch Awe, A weary cry frae ony toun; The Spey, that loups o’er linn an… They praise a’ ither streams aboon… They boast their braes o’ bonny D…

Who have loved and ceased to love,… That ever they loved in their live… Only remember the fever and fret, And the pain of Love, that was al… All the delight of him passes away

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,…

Oh, where are the endless Romance… Our grandmothers used to adore? The Knights with their helms and… Their shields and the favours they… And the Monks with their magical…

HE sat among the woods; he heard The sylvan merriment; he saw The pranks of butterfly and bird, The humors of the ape, the daw. And in the lion or the frog,—

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,

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…

HAD cigarettes no ashes, And roses ne’er a thorn, No man would be a funker Of whin, or burn, or bunker. There were no need for mashies,