The Poems of Robert FergussonW.J. Hay, 1905 - 186 pages |
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Common terms and phrases
aften AMYNTAS Auld Reikie baith bauld beauty blaw blythe bonny Boreas braw breath breeze browster busk canna canty cauld cauler cheer CORYDON cou'd Damon dead death dowie e'er Edina's fair Fancy FLORELLUS fouk frae gales gang GEORDIE gi'e glowr green groves gude Braid Claith hail hame hath heart heeze ilka loun lyre maun melody Mirth mony morn mourn Muse nae mair Naiads ne'er never night numbers o'er owre Phoebus plain poortith reed reign Reikie ROBERT FERGUSSON Robin Gibb round Scotland shade shepherd shore shou'd sigh siller simmer sing smiles song Spring strain streams swain sweet thee thir days thou TIMANTHES tongue trow Twas unco verdant Virtue voice wame weel weet Whan Whare Whase Whilk wing wirrikow woes yence youth
Popular passages
Page 28 - O ! who can hold a fire in his hand By thinking on the frosty Caucasus? Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite By bare imagination of a feast?
Page 102 - The spinsters and the knitters in the sun, And the free maids that weave their thread with bones, Do use to chant it ; it is silly sooth, And dallies with the innocence of love, Like the old age.
Page 52 - O great god Pan, to thee Thus do we sing ! Thou that keep'st us chaste and free As the young spring ; Ever be thy honour spoke, From that place the Morn is broke To that place Day doth unyoke...
Page 98 - HAPPY the man who, void of cares and strife, In silken or in leathern purse retains A Splendid Shilling.
Page 101 - While he draws breath, Till his four quarters are bedeckit Wi' gude Braid Claith. On Sabbath-days the barber spark, Whan he has done wi...
Page 102 - O' gude Braid Claith. For, gin he come wi' coat thread-bare, A feg for him she winna care, But crook her bonny mou' fu
Page 128 - O mock na this, my friends ! but rather mourn, Ye in life's brawest spring wi' reason clear ; Wi' eild our idle fancies a' return, And dim our dolefu' days wi' bairnly fear ; The mind's ay cradled whan the grave is near.
Page 92 - A ganging point compos'da line, By numbers too, he cou'd divine, Whan he did read, That three times three just made up nine ; But now he's dead. In Algebra weel skill'd he was, And kent fu' weel proportion's laws ; He cou'd mak' clear baith B's and A's Wi' his lang head ; Kin owr surd roots, but cracks or flaws ; But now he's dead.
Page 101 - Fame, Let merit nae pretension claim To laurell'd wreath, But hap ye weel, baith back and wame, In gude Braid Claith. He that some ells o...
Page 168 - Than that fool cause o' being seen, Let me to Arthur's seat pursue, Where bonny pastures meet the view, And mony a wild-lorn scene accrues, Befitting Willie Shakespeare's muse If Fancy there would join the thrang, The desert rocks and hills amang, To echoes we should lilt and play. And gie to mirth the livelang day. Or should some cankered biting shower The day and a...