The Wildgrave winds his bugle-hor… To horse, to horse! halloo, halloo… His fiery courser snuffs the morn, And thronging serfs their lord pur… The eager pack, from couples freed…

Autumn departs - but still his man… Rests on the groves of noble Some… Beneath a shroud of russet dropp’d… Tweed and his tributaries mingle s… Hoarser the wind, and deeper sound…

So goodbye, Mrs. Brown, I am going out of town, Over dale, over down, Where bugs bite not, Where lodgers fight not,

The herring loves the merry moon-l… The mackerel loves the wind, But the oyster loves the dredging… For they come of a gentle kind. Now haud your tongue, baith wife a…

The summer sun, whose early power Was wont to gild Matilda’s bower, And rouse her with his matin ray Her duteous orisons to pay, That morning sun has three times s…

The rose is fairest when ‘t is bud… And hope is brightest when it dawn… The rose is sweetest washed with m… And love is loveliest when embalme… O wilding rose, whom fancy thus en…

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…

Heap on more wood! the wind is chi… But let it whistle as it will, We’ll keep our Christmas merry st… Each age has deem’d the new-born y… The fittest time for festal cheer:

The glowing censers, and their ric… The splendid vestments, and the so… The gentle sigh of soul-subduing p… The alms which open-hearted charit… Bestows, with kindly glance; and t…

Farewell to Northmaven, Grey Hillswicke, farewell! The storms on thy haven, The storms on thy fell - To each breeze that can vary

Where shall the lover rest Whom the fates sever From the true maiden’s breast, Parted for ever?— Where, through groves deep and hig…

The sun upon the lake is low, The wild birds hush their song, The hills have evening’s deepest g… Yet Leonard tarries long. Now all whom varied toil and care

Waken, lords and ladies gay, On the mountain dawns the day; All the jolly chase is here With hawk and horse and hunting-sp… Hounds are in their couples yellin…

He is gone on the mountain, He is lost to the forest, Like a summer-dried fountain, When our need was the sorest. The font, reappearing,

As lords their labourers’ hire del… Fate quits our toil with hopes to… Which, if far short of present pay… Still, owns a debt and names a sum… Quit not the pledge, frail suffere…