#Scots #XVIIICentury
O SAW ye my Dear, my Philly? O saw ye my Dear, my Philly, She’s down i’ the grove, she’s wi’… She winna come hame to her Willy. What says she my dear, my Philly?
O how shall I, unskilfu’, try The Poet’s occupation? The tunefu’ powers, in happy hours… That whisper, inspiration, Even they maun dare an effort mair
Now spring has clad the grove in g… And strew’d the lea wi’ flowers; The furrow’d, waving corn is seen Rejoice in fostering showers: While ilka thing in nature join
WHILE at the stook the shearers… To shun the bitter blaudin’ show’r… Or in gulravage rinnin scowr To pass the time, To you I dedicate the hour
Flow gently, sweet Afton, among t… Flow gently, I’ll sing thee a son… My Mary’s asleep by thy murmuring… Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb… Thou stock—dove, whose echo resoun…
Scots, what hae wi’ Wallace bled, Scots, wham Bruce has aften led, Welcome to your gory bed, Or to victorie! Now’s the day, and now’s the hour;
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,
STRAIT is the spot and green th… From whence my sorrows flow; And soundly sleeps the ever dear Inhabitant below. Pardon my transport, gentle shade,
HAD I a cave on some wild distan… Where the winds howl to the wave’s… There would I weep my woes, There seek my lost repose, Till grief my eyes should close,
As I was a—wand’ring ae morning i… I heard a young ploughman sae swee… And as he was singin’, thir words… There’s nae life like the ploughma… The lav’rock in the morning she’ll…
Cauld blaws the wind frae east to… The drift is driving sairly; Sae loud shrill`s I hear the blas… I`m sure it`s winters fairly. CHORUS:Up in the morning`s no f…
On a bank of flowers in a summer d… For summer lightly drest, The youthful, blooming Nelly lay, With love and sleep opprest; When Willie, wand’ring thro the w…
The sun he is sunk in the west; All creatures retired to rest, While here I sit, all sore beset, With sorrow, grief, and woe: And it’s O, fickle Fortune, O!
O Poortith cauld, and restless lo… Ye wrack my peace between ye; Yet poortith a’ I could forgive An ’twere na for my Jeanie. O why should Fate sic pleasure ha…
THERE’S news, lassies, news, Gude news I’ve to tell! There’s a boatfu’ o’ lads Come to our town to sell. Chorus.—The wean wants a cradle,
