The Poetical Works and Letters of Robert Burns: With Copious Marginal Explanations of the Scotch Words, and LifeGall & Inglis, 1881 - 642 pages |
Contents
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Other editions - View all
The Complete Works of Robert Burns: Containing His Poems, Songs, and ... Robert Burns No preview available - 2016 |
The Complete Works of Robert Burns: Containing His Poems, Songs, and ... Robert Burns No preview available - 2017 |
Common terms and phrases
aboon aith amang ance auld baith bard Beneath birks of Aberfeldy blast blate blaw blest bonnie bonnie lasses bosom braes braw breast BRIG Burns cauld charms chiel Cutty-sark dear death deid e'en e'er ELLISLAND fair fame Farewell fate fear fellow Fête Champêtre flowers fortune's frae gies glen grace grief groan guid hame heart Heaven Highland honest honour ilka ither lass lassie life's Mauchline maun meikle mony morn Mossgiel mourn Muse nae mair ne'er never night o'er owre pleasure plough poet poor pride rhyme roar ROBERT BURNS sang Scotia's Scotland sing skelpin song sorrow soul strains sweet tears tell thee thegither There's thou unco wander weary weel Whigs whistle Whyles wild Willie winds winna Ye'll ye're
Popular passages
Page 277 - As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, So deep in luve am I, And I will luve thee still, my dear, Till a' the seas gang dry. Till a" the seas gang dry, my dear, And the rocks melt wi' the sun! And I will love thee still, my dear, While the sands o
Page 147 - Thou ling'ring star, with less'ning ray, That lov'st to greet the early morn, Again thou usher'st in the day My Mary from my soul was torn. O Mary! dear departed shade! Where is thy place of blissful rest? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?
Page 291 - For a' that, and a' that, Their dignities, and a' that ; The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth, Are higher rank than a that. Then let us pray that come it may, As come it will for a' that ; That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth, May bear the gree, and a' that. For a
Page 90 - BARD'S EPITAPH. Is there a whim-inspired fool, Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool, Let him draw near ; And owre this grassy heap sing dool, And drap a tear. Is there a Bard of rustic song, Who, noteless, steals the crowds among, That weekly this area throng, O, pass not by ! But, with a frater-feeling strong, Here, heave a sigh. Is there a man whose judgment clear, Can others teach the course to steer, Yet runs, himself, life's mad career...
Page 261 - Shall I, like a fool, quoth he, For a haughty hizzie die ? She may gae to — France for me ! Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
Page 79 - O' clod or stane, Adorns the histie stibble-field, Unseen, alane. There, in thy scanty mantle clad, Thy snawie bosom sun-ward spread, Thou lifts thy unassuming head In humble guise ; But now the share uptears thy bed, And low thou lies ! Such is the fate of artless maid, Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade ! By love's simplicity betray'd, And guileless trust, 'Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid Low i
Page 291 - He looks and laughs at a' that. A prince can mak' a belted knight, A marquis, duke, and a' that ; But an honest man's aboon his might, Guid faith he mauna fa' that. For a
Page 6 - Then kneeling down to Heaven's Eternal King, The saint, the father, and the husband prays: Hope "springs exulting on triumphant wing," That thus they all shall meet in future days: There ever bask in uncreated rays, No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear, Together hymning their Creator's praise, In such society, yet still more dear; While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere.
Page 76 - Tho' they may gang a kennin wrang, To step aside is human : One point must still be greatly dark, The moving why they do it : And just as lamely can ye mark, How far perhaps they rue it. Who made the heart, 'tis He alone Decidedly can try us, He knows each chord- — its various tone, Each spring — its various bias : Then at the balance let's be mute, We never can adjust it; What's done we partly may compute, But know not what's resisted.
Page 3 - My lov'd, my honour'd, much respected friend! No mercenary bard his homage pays; With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end, My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise: To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene, The native feelings strong, the guileless ways, What Aiken in a cottage would have been; Ah! tho' his worth unknown, far happier there I ween! November chill blaws loud wi...