Reminiscences of Old Edinburgh, Volume 1

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Page 208 - Well! If the Bard was weather-wise, who made The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence, This night, so tranquil now, will not go hence Unroused by winds, that ply a busier trade Than those which mould yon cloud in lazy flakes, Or the dull sobbing draft, that moans and rakes Upon the strings of this /Eolian lute, Which better far were mute.
Page 30 - Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer, And without sneering, teach the rest to sneer; Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike, Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike...
Page 68 - And let me tell you," added the third lady, whose mouth was puckered up to the size of an issue, "that the Duchess has fine lips, but she wants a mouth.' ' At this every lady drew up her mouth as if going to pronounce the letter P. But how ill, my Bob, does it become me to ridicule women with whom I have scarcely any correspondence ? There are.
Page 78 - Thus while I ape the measure wild Of tales that charm'd me yet a child, Rude though they be, still with the chime Return the thoughts of early time; And feelings, rous'd in life's first day, Glow in the line, and prompt the lay...
Page 188 - 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 213 - Our shapes and size we can convert To either large or small ; An old nutshell's the same to us As is the lofty hall. " We sleep in rose-buds soft and sweet, We revel in the stream ; We wanton lightly on the wind, Or glide on a sunbeam.
Page 246 - commonly called Snuffy Davy, from his inveterate addiction to black rappee, was the very prince of scouts for searching blind alleys, cellars, and stalls, for rare volumes. He had the scent of a slow-hound, sir, and the snap of a bull-dog. He would detect you an old black-letter ballad among the leaves of a law-paper, and find an editio princeps under the mask of a school Corderius. Snuffy Davie bought the
Page 271 - Merry it is in the good greenwood, When the mavis and merle are singing, When the deer sweeps by, and the hounds are in cry, And the hunter's horn is ringing.
Page 281 - My sheep I neglected, I broke my sheep-hook, And all the gay haunts of my youth I forsook : No more for Amynta fresh garlands I wove; Ambition, I said, would soon cure me of love.
Page 286 - Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle to play; But ilk ane sits drearie, lamenting her dearie — The Flowers of the Forest are weded away. Dool and wae for the order, sent our lads to the Border ! The English, for ance, by guile wan the day ; The Flowers of the Forest, that fought aye the foremost, The prime of our land, are cauld in the clay.

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