#Scots
Jamie, come try me, Jamie, come try me, If thou would win my love, Jamie, come try me. If thou should ask my love,
Now spring has clad the grove in g… And strew’d the lea wi’ flowers; The furrow’d, waving corn is seen Rejoice in fostering showers: While ilka thing in nature join
THOU flatt’ring mark of friendsh… Still may thy pages call to mind The dear, the beauteous donor; Tho’ sweetly female ev’ry part, Yet such a head, and more the hear…
My love, she’s but a lassie yet, My love, she’s but a lassie yet! We’ll let her stand a year or twa, She’ll no be half sae saucy yet! I rue the day I sought her, O!
It was upon a Lammas night, When corn rigs are bonnie, Beneath the moon’s unclouded light… I held away to Annie: The time flew by wi’ tentless heed
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…
OLD Winter, with his frosty bear… Thus once to Jove his prayer pref… “What have I done of all the year… To bear this hated doom severe? My cheerless suns no pleasure know…
Nae lark in transport mounts the s… Or leaves wi’ early plaintive cry, But I will bid a last good—bye, My last farewell to Stirling O. Chorus:
O DEATH, had’st thou but spar’d… Whom we this day lament, We freely wad exchanged the wife, And a’ been weel content. Ev’n as he is, cauld in his graff,
Scots, what hae wi’ Wallace bled, Scots, wham Bruce has aften led, Welcome to your gory bed, Or to victorie! Now’s the day, and now’s the hour;
HAIL, thairm-inspirin’, rattlin’… Tho’ fortune’s road be rough an’ h… To every fiddling, rhyming billie, We never heed, But take it like the unback’d fill…
O on the fourteenth day of Februa… In the bold Princess Royal bound… We had forty bright sailors for ou… And boldly from the eastward to th… We had not been sailing scarce day…
Sad bird of night, what sorrows ca… To vent thy plaints thus in the mi… Is it some blast that gathers in t… Threatening to nip the verdure of… Is it, sad oul, that Autumn strip…
HEE balou, my sweet wee Donald, Picture o’ the great Clanronald; Brawlie kens our wanton Chief Wha gat my young Highland thief. Leeze me on thy bonie craigie,
O THOU whom Poetry abhors, Whom Prose has turnèd out of door… Heard’st thou yon groan?—proceed n… ’Twas laurel’d Martial calling mu…
