NO Spartan tube, no Attic shell, No lyre Æolian I awake; ’Tis liberty’s bold note I swell, Thy harp, Columbia, let me take! See gathering thousands, while I…

THERE’S Death in the cup, so be… Nay, more—there is danger in touch… But who can avoid the fell snare, The man and his wine’s so bewitchi…

YE true “Loyal Natives” attend t… In uproar and riot rejoice the nig… From Envy and Hatred your corps i… But where is your shield from the…

O HAD each Scot of ancient times Been, Jeanie Scott, as thou art; The bravest heart on English grou… Had yielded like a coward.

KILMARNOCK wabsters, fidge an… An’ pour your creeshie nations; An’ ye wha leather rax an’ draw, Of a’ denominations; Swith to the Ligh Kirk, ane an’ a…

IN wood and wild, ye warbling thr… Your heavy loss deplore; Now, half extinct your powers of s… Sweet Echo is no more. Ye jarring, screeching things arou…

No cold approach, no altered mien, Just what would make suspicion sta… No pause the dire extremes between… He made me blest– and broke my hea…

O, whistle an’ I’ll come to ye, m… O, whistle an’ I’ll come to ye, m… Tho’ father an’ mother an’ a’ shou… O, whistle an’ I’ll come to ye, m… But warily tent when ye come to co…

THE FRIEND whom, wild from Wi… The fumes of wine infuriate send, (Not moony madness more astray) Who but deplores that hapless frie… Mine was th’ insensate frenzied pa…

LET not Woman e’er complain Of inconstancy in love; Let not Woman e’er complain Fickle Man is apt to rove: Look abroad thro’ Nature’s range,

O, wilt thou go wi’ me, Sweet Tibbie Dunbar? O, wilt thou go wi’ me, Sweet Tibbie Dunbar? Wilt thou ride on a horse,

Talk not of love, it gives me pain… For love has been my foe; He bound me in an iron chain, And plung’d me deep in woe. But friendship’s pure and lasting…

O Thou! whatever title suit thee— Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clo… Wha in yon cavern grim an’ sootie, Clos’d under hatches, Spairges about the brunstane cooti…

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,

By Allan stream I chanc’d to rove… While Phoebus sank beyond Benledi… The winds are whispering thro’ the… The yellow corn was waving ready: I listen’d to a lover’s sang,