#ScottishWriters
Should auld acquaintance be forgot… And never brought to mind? Should auld acquaintance be forgot… And auld lang syne! Chorus —For auld land syne, my de…
Of a’ the airts the wind can blaw I dearly like the west, For there the bonie lassie lives, The lassie I lo’e best. There wild woods grow and rivers r…
Scots, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled, Scots, wham Bruce has aften led, Welcome to your gory bed, Or to victory! Now’s the day, and now’s the hour;
A Guide New-year I wish thee, Ma… Hae, there’s a ripp to thy auld ba… Tho’ thou’s howe-backit now, an’ k… I’ve seen the day There could hae gaen like ony stag…
NO churchman am I for to rail and… No statesman nor soldier to plot o… No sly man of business contriving… For a big-belly’d bottle’s the who… The peer I don’t envy, I give him…
Instead of a song, boys, I’ll giv… Here’s the memory of those on the… That we lost, did I say, nay, by… For their fame it shall last while… The next in succession, I’ll give…
WHEN chill November’s surly blas… Made fields and forests bare, One ev’ning, as I wander’d forth Along the banks of Ayr, I spied a man, whose aged step
LAMENT him, Mauchline husbands… He aften did assist ye; For had ye staid hale weeks awa, Your wives they ne’er had miss’d y… Ye Mauchline bairns, as on ye pre…
TO you, sir, this summons I’ve se… Pray, whip till the pownie is frea… But if you demand what I want, I honestly answer you—naething. Ne’er scorn a poor Poet like me,
AS I stood by yon roofless tower, Where the wa’flower scents the dew… Where the howlet mourns in her ivy… And tells the midnight moon her ca… The winds were laid, the air was s…
BLESS Jesus Christ, O Cardones… With grateful, lifted eyes, Who taught that not the soul alone… But body too shall rise; For had He said “the soul alone
I hae seen the hairst o’ Rettie,… And twa—three aff the throne. I’ve heard o sax and seven weeks The hairsters girn and groan. But wi’ a covie Willie Rae
A Tale “Of Brownyis and of Bogillis full… Gawin Douglas. When chapman billies leave the str… And drouthy neibors neibors meet;
There’s nane that’s blest of human… But the cheerful and the gay, man. Here’s a bottle and an honest frie… What wad ye wish for mair, man? Wha kens, before his life may end,
My love, she’s but a lassie yet, My love, she’s but a lassie yet! We’ll let her stand a year or twa, She’ll no be half sae saucy yet! I rue the day I sought her, O!
