From Jean Pierre Claris Florian I love to see the swallows come At my window twittering, Bringing from their southern home News of the approaching spring.

on returning to St. Andrews In the hard familiar horse-box I… Creeping back to old St. Andrews… Bearing bejants with their luggage… Which the porter, hot and tipless,…

Would you like to see a city given… Soul and body, to a tyrannising ga… If you would, there’s little need… For St. Andrews is the abject cit… It is surely quite superfluous to…

I met him down upon the pier, His eyes were wild and sad, And something in them made me fear That he was going mad. So, being of a prudent sort,

Through many lands and over many s… I come, my Brother, to thine obse… To pay thee the last honours that… And call upon thy voiceless dust,… Since cruel fate has robbed me eve…

Till the tread of marching feet Through the quiet grass-grown stre… Of the little town shall come, Soldier, rest awhile at home. While the banners idly hang,

Oh, who may this dead warrior be That to his grave they bring? ’Tis William, Duke of Normandy, The conqueror and king. Across the sea, with fire and swor…

Let me sleep. The day is past, And the folded shadows keep Weary mortals safe and fast. Let me sleep. I am all too tired to weep

How many the troubles that wait On mortals!—especially those Who endeavour in eloquent prose To expound their views, and orate. Did you ever attempt to speak

Ever to be the best. To lead In whatsoever things are true; Not stand among the halting crew The faint of heart, the feeble-kne… Who tarry for a certain sign

The rain had fallen, the Poet aro… He passed through the doorway into… A strong wind lifted his hat from… And he uttered some words that wer… And then he started to follow the…

When one who has wandered out of t… Which leads to the hills of joy, Whose heart has grown both cold an… Though it be but the heart of a bo… When such a one turns back his fee…

I know the garden-close of sin, The cloying fruits, the noxious fl… I long have roamed the walks and b… Desiring what no man shall win: A secret place to shelter in,

Fickle Summer’s fled away, Shall we see her face again? Hearken to the weeping rain, Never sunbeam greets the day. More inconstant than the May,

Familiar with thy melody, We go debating of its power, As churls, who hear it hour by hou… Contemn the skylark’s minstrelsy - As shepherds on a Highland lea