#ScottishWriters
All joy was bereft me the day that… And climb’d the tall vessel to sai… O weary betide it! I wander’d bes… And bann’d it for parting my Will… Far o’er the wave hast thou follow…
Once again,- but how chang’d since… I have heard the deep voice of the… And the pines of Clanbrasil resou… That wearies the echoes of fair T… Alas! My poor bosom, and why shou…
BREATHES there the man with so… Who never to himself hath said, ‘This is my own, my native land!’ Whose heart hath ne’er within him… As home his footsteps he hath turn…
Fill the bright goblet, spread the… Summon the gay, the noble, and the… Through the loud hall, in joyous c… Let mirth and music sound the dirg… But ask thou not if Happiness be…
It was Dunois, the young and brav… But first he made his orisons befo… ‘And grant, immortal Queen of Hea… ‘That I may prove the bravest kni… His oath of honour on the shrine h…
On fair Loch-Ranza stream’d the e… Thin wreaths of cottage-smoke are… From the lone hamlet, which her in… And circling mountains sever from… And there the fisherman his sail u…
The toils are pitched, and the sta… Ever sing merrily, merrily; The bows they bend, and the knives… Hunters live so cheerily. It was a stag, a stag of ten,
Where shall the lover rest Whom the fates sever From his true maiden’s breast Parted for ever? Where, through groves deep and hig…
Knight And Wamba There came three merry men from so… Ever more sing the roundelay; To win the Widow of Wycombe forth… And where was the widow might say…
O, low shone the sun on the fair l… And weak were the whispers that wa… All as a fair maiden, bewilder’d i… Sorely sigh’d to the breezes, and… ‘O, saints! from the mansions of b…
The scenes are desert now, and bar… Where flourished once a forest fai… When these waste glens with copse… And peopled with the hart and hind… Yon thorn-perchance whose prickly…
“Have, then, thy wish!”—he whistle… And he was answer’d from the hill; Wild as the scream of the curlew, From crag to crag the signal flew. Instant, through copse and heath,
Call it not vain;-they do not err, Who say, that when the Poet dies, Mute Nature mourns her worshipper… And celebrates his obsequies: Who say, tall cliff and cavern lon…
The hunting tribes of air and eart… Respect the brethren of their birt… Nature, who loves the claim of kin… Less cruel chase to each assign’d. The falcon, poised on soaring wing…
Glowing with love, on fire for fam… A Troubadour that hated sorrow Beneath his lady’s window came, And thus he sung his last good-mor… ‘My arm it is my country’s right,
