Abbotsford Series of the Scottish Poets,

Predný obal
George Eyre-Todd
W. Hodge & Company, 1896

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Strana 231 - Our toils obscure, and a' that; The rank is but the guinea's stamp, The Man's the gowd for a" that. What though on hamely fare we dine, Wear hoddin gray, and a' that; Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, A Man's a Man for a
Strana 173 - Whare sits our sulky sullen dame, Gathering her brows like gathering storm, Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. This truth fand honest Tam o...
Strana 230 - It is the wish'd, the trysted hour! Those smiles and glances let me see, That make the miser's treasure poor: How...
Strana 3 - AH ! who can tell how hard it is to climb The steep where Fame's proud temple shines afar; Ah! who can tell how many a soul sublime Has felt the influence of malignant star, And waged with Fortune an eternal war...
Strana 185 - The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace, The big ha'-Bible, ance his father's pride : His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside, His lyart haffets wearing thin an' bare; Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, He wales a portion with judicious care, And " Let us worship God !
Strana 185 - They chant their artless notes in simple guise; They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim : Perhaps ' Dundee's ' wild warbling measures rise, Or plaintive *• Martyrs...
Strana 216 - Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides, And winds by the cot where my Mary resides; How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, As gathering sweet flow'rets she stems thy clear wave.
Strana 224 - There wild woods grow, and rivers row, And mony a hill between ; But day and night my fancy's flight Is ever wi' my Jean. I see her in the dewy flowers, I see her sweet and fair : I hear her in the tunefu' birds, I hear her charm the air : There's not a bonnie flower that springs By fountain, shaw, or green, There's not a bonnie bird that sings But minds me o
Strana 231 - That hangs his head, and a' that! The coward slave, we pass him by, We dare be poor for a' that! 44S For a' that, and a' that, Our toils obscure, and a' that; The rank is but the guinea's stamp, The Man's the gowd for a
Strana 179 - And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main; Till first ae caper, syne anither, Tam tint his reason a' thegither, And roars out: "Weel done, Cutty-sark!" And in an instant all was dark; And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, When out the hellish legion sallied. As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke, When plundering herds assail their byke: As open pussie's mortal foes, When, pop!

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