The works of Allen Ramsay. With life of the author by G. Chalmers; an essay on his genius and writings by lord Woodhouselee, and appendix, Volume 2

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Page 48 - Just enter'd in her teens, Fair as the day, and sweet as May, Fair as the day, and always gay ; My Peggy is a young thing, And I'm not very auld, Yet well I like to meet her at The wauking o
Page 231 - Since honour commands me, how can I refuse ? Without it I ne'er can have merit for thee, And...
Page 48 - The wauking of the fauld. My Peggy speaks sae sweetly, Whene'er we meet alane, I wish nae mair to lay my care, — I wish nae mair of a' that's rare. My Peggy speaks sae sweetly, To a' the lave I'm cauld; But she gars a' my spirits glow, At wanking of the fauld.
Page 58 - Jenny. I never thought a single life a crime. Peggy. Nor I: but love in whispers lets us ken That men were made for us, and we for men. Jenny. If Roger is my jo, he kens himsell, For sic a tale I never heard him tell. He glowrs* and...
Page 200 - Be sure ye dinna quat the grip Of ilka joy when ye are young, Before auld age your vitals nip, And lay ye twafald o'er a rung. Sweet youth's a...
Page 48 - I look down on a' the town, — That I look down upon a crown. My Peggy smiles sae kindly, It makes me blyth and bauld; And naething gi'es me sic delight As wauking of the fauld. My Peggy sings sae saftly, When on my pipe I play, By a' the rest it is confest, — By a' the rest, that she sings best.
Page 230 - FAREWELL to Lochaber, and farewell my Jean, Where heartsome with thee I've mony day been ; For Lochaber no more, Lochaber no more, We'll maybe return to Lochaber no more. These tears that I shed they are a...
Page 223 - POLWART ON THE GREEN, (ij AT Polwart on the green If you'll meet me the morn, Where lasses do conveen To dance about the thorn, A kindly welcome ye shall meet Frae her wha likes to view A lover and a lad complete— The lad and lover you.
Page 63 - I'll have a' things made ready to his will. In winter, when he toils thro' wind and rain, A bleezing ingle, and a clean hearth-stane; And soon as he flings by his plaid and staff, The seething...
Page 77 - I judge, as we. Here, where primroses thickest paint the green, Hard by this little burnie let us lean : Hark ! how the lav'rocks chant aboon our heads, How saft the westlin winds sough through the reeds I FEOOY.

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