#Scots
It is not yours, O mother, to com… Not, mother, yours to weep, Though nevermore your son again Shall to your bosom creep, Though nevermore again you watch y…
Dear Andrew, with the brindled ha… Who glory to have thrown in air, High over arm, the trembling reed, By Ale and Kail, by Till and Twe… An equal craft of hand you show
My Treasures These nuts, that I keep in the ba… Where all my tin soldiers are lyin… Were gathered in Autumn by nursie… In a wood with a well by the side…
IF I have faltered more or less In my great task of happiness; If I have moved among my race And shown no glorious morning face… If beams from happy human eyes
I, WHOM Apollo sometime visited… Or feigned to visit, now, my day b… Do slumber wholly; nor shall know… The weariness of changes; nor perc… Immeasurable sands of centuries
Bright is the ring of words When the right man rings them, Fair the fall of songs When the singer sings them. Still they are carolled and said —
Dark brown is the river, Golden is the sand. It flows along for ever, With trees on either hand. Green leaves a—floating,
Tall as a guardsman, pale as the e… Who strides in strange apparel on… Rails for his breakfast? routs his… (Like boys escaped from school) wi… Kind and unkind, his Maker’s fina…
Of speckled eggs the birdie sings And nests among the trees; The sailor sings of ropes and thin… In ships upon the seas. The children sing in far Japan,
MY love was warm; for that I cros… The mountains and the sea, Nor counted that endeavour lost That gave my love to me. If that indeed were love at all,
SO live, so love, so use that fra… That when the dark hand of the shi… Shall one from other, wife or husb… The poor survivor may not weep and…
WHEN my young lady has grown gre… And in long raiment wondrously arr… She may take pleasure with a smile… How she delighted men—folk long ag… For her long after, then, this tal…
NOW in the sky And on the hearth of Now in a drawer the direful cane, That sceptre of the . . . reign, And the long hawser, that on the b…
It’s rainin’. Weet’s the gairden… Weet the lang roads whaur gangrels… A maist unceevil thing o’ God In mid July — If ye’ll just curse the sneckdraw,…
I read, dear friend, in your dear… Your life’s tale told with perfect… The river of your life, I trace Up the sun-chequered, devious bed To the far-distant fountain-head.
