#ScottishWriters
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;
O, were my love yon lilac 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
HERE lie Willie Michie’s banes; O Satan, when ye tak him, Gie him the schulin o’ your weans, For clever deils he’ll mak them!
On Cessnock banks a lassie dwells… Could I describe her shape and mi… Our lassies a’ she far excels, An’ she has twa sparkling, rogueis… She’s sweeter than the morning daw…
Let other poets raise a fracas Bout vines, and wines, an drucken… An crabbit names an stories wrack… An grate our lug: I sing the juice Scotch bear can…
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,
O that I had ne’er been married, I wad never had nae care, Now I’ve gotten wife an’ weans, An’ they cry “ Crowdie ” evermair… Chorus:
Willie Wastle dwalls on Tweed, The spot they ca’ it Linkumdoddie… A creeshie wabster till his trade, Can steal a clue wi’ ony body: He has a wife that’s dour and din,
Guid—Mornin’ to our Majesty! May Heaven augment your blisses On ev’ry new birth—day ye see, A humble poet wishes. My bardship here, at your Levee
AULD chuckie Reekie’s 1 sair dis… Down droops her ance weel burnish’… Nae joy her bonie buskit nest Can yield ava, Her darling bird that she lo’es be…
CA’ the yowes to the knowes, Ca’ them where the heather grows, Ca’ them where the burnie rows, My bonnie dearie. Hark! the mavis’ evening sang
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…
Wae is my heart, and the tear’s in… Lang lang Joy’s been a stranger t… Forsaken and friendless, my burden… And the sweet voice o’ Pity ne’er… Love thou hast pleasures, and deep…
Coming thro’ the rye, poor body, Coming thro’ the rye, She draiglet a’ her petticoatie Coming thro’ the rye. O, Jenny’s a’ wat, poor body;
“PRAISE Woman still,” his lords… “Deserv’d or not, no matter?” But thee, whom all my soul adores, Ev’n Flattery cannot flatter: Maria, all my thought and dream,