O Thou, the first, the greatest f… Of all the human race! Whose strong right hand has ever b… Their stay and dwelling place! Before the mountains heav’d their…

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…

LATE crippl’d of an arm, and now… About to beg a pass for leave to b… Dull, listless, teas’d, dejected,… (Nature is adverse to a cripple’s… Will generous Graham list to his…

'Husband, husband, cease your stri… Nor longer idly rave, Sir; Tho’ I am your wedded wife Yet I am not your slave, Sir.' ‘One of two must still obey,

WHY am I loth to leave this eart… Have I so found it full of pleasi… Some drops of joy with draughts of… Some gleams of sunshine 'mid renew… Is it departing pangs my soul alar…

CEASE, ye prudes, your envious r… Lovely Burns has charms’€”confess… True it is, she had one failing, Had a woman ever less?

Is there, for honest poverty, That hings his head, an’ a’ that? The coward slave, we pass him by, We dare be poor for a’ that! For a’ that, an’ a’ that,

Fairest Maid on Devon banks, Crystal Devon, winding Devon, Wilt thou lay that frown aside, And smile as thou wert wont to do. Full well thou knowest I love the…

HAS auld Kilmarnock seen the dei… Or great Mackinlay 1 thrawn his h… Or Robertson 2 again grown weel, To preach an’ read? “Na’ waur than a’! cries ilka chie…

Lament in rhyme, lament in prose, Wi’ saut tears tricklin down your… Our bardie’s fate is at a close, Past a’ remead! The last, sad cape—stane o’ his wo…

Farewell to the Highlands, farewe… The birth—place of Valour, the co… Wherever I wander, wherever I rov… The hills of the Highlands for ev… My heart’s in the Highlands, my h…

YOUR News and Review, sir. I’ve read through and through, sir… With little admiring or blaming; The Papers are barren Of home-news or foreign,

Where Cart rins rowin to the sea, By mony a flower and spreading tre… There lives a lad, the lad for me, He is a gallant Weaver. Oh I had wooers aught or nine,

O were my Love yon Lilack fair, Wi’ purple blossoms to the Spring… And I, a bird to shelter there, When wearied on my little wing. How I wad mourn, when it was torn

LORD, we thank, and thee adore, For temporal gifts we little merit… At present we will ask no more— Let William Hislop give the spiri…