The British Poets, Volume 2

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Little, Brown & Company, 1865
 

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Page 192 - I forget the hallowed grove where by the winding Ayr we met, to live one day of parting love! Eternity will not efface those records dear of transports past; thy image at our last embrace — ah! little thought we 'twas our last! Ayr gurgling kissed his pebbled shore, o'erhung with wild woods...
Page 254 - In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin! In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin! Kate soon will be a woefu
Page 248 - Tarn had got planted unco right; Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely; And at his elbow, Souter Johnny, His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony; Tarn lo'ed him like a vera brither; They had been fou for weeks thegither. The night drave on wi...
Page 227 - My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here : My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer; Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go.
Page 255 - Tam wi' furious ettle ; But little wist she Maggie's mettle — Ae spring brought off her master hale, But left behind her ain gray tail : The carlin claught her by the rump, And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. Now, wha this tale o...
Page 252 - Whom his ain son o' life bereft, The grey hairs yet stack to the heft ; Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu', Which ev"n to name wad be unlawfu'. As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd, and curious, The mirth and fun grew fast and furious : The piper loud and louder blew ; The dancers quick and quicker flew ; They...
Page 247 - An' getting fou and unco happy, We think na on the lang Scots miles, The mosses, waters, slaps, and styles, That lie between us and our hame ; Whare sits our sulky sullen dame, Gathering her brows like gathering storm, Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. This truth fand honest Tarn o...
Page 251 - Nae cotillion brent new frae France, But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels, Put life and mettle in their heels. A winnock-bunker in the east, There sat auld Nick, in shape o...
Page 153 - Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry, The ship rides by the Berwick-law, And I maun leave my bonnie Mary. The trumpets sound, the banners fly, The glittering spears are ranked ready; The shouts o...
Page 221 - John Your locks are like the snaw ; But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson my jo. John Anderson my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither ; And mony a canty day, John, We've had wi...

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