Annual Burns Chronicle and Club Directory, Issues 5-6

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D. Brown, 1896

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Page 41 - Is there a man, whose judgment clear Can others teach the course to steer, Yet runs, himself, life's mad career, Wild as the wave ; Here pause — and, through the starting tear, Survey this grave.
Page 72 - Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape ; Five tomahawks, wi' bluid red-rusted ; Five scimitars wi' murder crusted ; A garter, which a babe had strangled ; A knife, a father's throat had mangled, Whom his ain son o...
Page 149 - 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 20 - O' my sweet Highland Mary. How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk, How rich the hawthorn's blossom, As underneath their fragrant shade I clasp'd her to my bosom ! The golden hours on angel wings Flew o'er me and my dearie; For dear to me as light and life Was my sweet Highland Mary. Wi' mony a vow and lock'd embrace Our parting was fu' tender; And pledging aft to meet again, We tore oursels asunder; But, Oh!
Page 30 - I knew a very wise man so much of Sir Christopher's sentiment, that he believed if a man were permitted to make all the ballads, he need not care who should make the laws of a nation.
Page 21 - O'er yon bank and o'er yon brae. O'er yon moss amang the heather ; I'll kilt my coats aboon my knee, And follow my love through the water. Down amang the broom, the broom, Down amang the broom, my dearie, The lassie lost a silken snood, That cost her mony a blirt and bleary.
Page 107 - Thou ling'ring star, with less'ning ray, That lov'st to greet the early morn, Again thou usher'st in the day My Mary from my soul was torn. O Mary! dear departed shade! Where is thy place of blissful rest? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?
Page 72 - That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses; And by some devilish cantrip slight Each in its cauld hand held a light— By which heroic Tam was able To note upon the haly table, A murderer's banes in gibbet aims; Twa span-lang, wee unchristen'd bairns; A thief, new-cutted frae a rape, Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape; Five tomahawks, wi...
Page 147 - Kilbarchan now may say Alas ! For she hath lost her game and grace, Both Trixie and the Maiden Trace ; But what remead ? For no man can supply his place, Hab Simson's dead. Now who shall play the Day it daws...
Page 76 - And she may still exist in undiminished vigour when some traveller from New Zealand shall, in the midst of a vast solitude, take his stand on a broken arch of London Bridge to sketch the ruins of St. Paul's.

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