Yet do not my folly reprove; She was fair—and my passion begun ; She smiled-and I could not but love : She is faithless-and I am undone. Pastoral. Part 4 Let the gull'd fool the toils of war pursue, The Judgment of Hercules. Lines 158, 159. Life has its bliss for these, when past its bloom, Ibid. Lines 430-433. Whoe'er has travelled life's dull round, The warmest welcome at an inn. Lines written on the window of an inn at Henley. Here, in cool grot and mossy cell, Darts through yon limes her quivering beams, We frisk it near these crystal streams. Lines inscribed on a Tablet in the Gardens at the Poet's residence, "The Leasowes." Where sits our sulky sullen dame, Gathering her brows like gathering storm, Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses, For honest men and bonnie lasses. Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious, But pleasures are like poppies spread, ; As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd and curious, The mirth and fun grew fast and furious. THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. If heaven a draught of heav'nly pleasure spare, 'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair, In other's arms breathe out the tender tale, Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the ev'ning gale! From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs, Princes and lords are but the breath of kings: O Scotia! my dear, my native soil! For whom my warmest wish to heaven is sent! Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content ! The auld kirk-hammer strak the bell, Death and Dr. Hornbook. Still gentler sister woman; Tho' they may gang a kennin' wrang, To step aside is human, Address to the Unco Guid * Pope's Essay on Man. See Quotations from Pope. Then at the balance let's be mute, What's done we partly may compute, But know not what's resisted. Address to the Unco Guid. Affliction's sons are brothers in distress ; A brother to relieve, how exquisite the bliss! My curse upon thy venom'd stang, Address to the Toothache. O wad some power the giftie gie us, It wad frae mony a blunder free us And foolish notion, Lines to a Louse. Hear, Land o' Cakes, and brither Scots, If there's a hole in a' your coats, A chiel's amang you takin' notes, Lines on Captain Grose's Peregrinations Man's inhumanity to man Makes countless thousands mourn. Man was made to Mourn. A Dirge. In durance vile here must I wake and weep, Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears Her 'prentice han' she tried on man, Song. Green Grow the Rashes. |