The Complete Works of Robert Burns (self-interpreting)

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Gebbie & Company, 1886 - Scottish poetry
 

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Page 184 - Let him follow me! By Oppression's woes and pains! By your sons in servile chains! We will drain our dearest veins, But they shall be free! •Lay the proud usurpers low ! Tyrants fall in every foe ! Liberty's in every blow! Let us do or die...
Page 4 - Tam wi' furious ettle ; But little wist she Maggie's mettle — Ae spring brought off her master hale, But left behind her ain gray tail : The carlin claught her by the rump, And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. Now, wha this tale o...
Page xxi - O'er a' the ills o' life victorious ! But pleasures are like poppies spread, You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed; Or like the...
Page xxvii - 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 148 - She has open'd the door, she has open'd it wide; She sees his pale corse on the plain, Oh ! My true love, she cried, and sank down by his side, Never to rise again, Oh ! MEG O' THE MILL. AIR — ' O, BONIE LASS, WILL YOU LIE IN A BARRACK.
Page 63 - But to return to our own institute; besides these constant exercises at home, there is another opportunity of gaining experience to be won from pleasure itself abroad; in those vernal seasons of the year when the air is calm and pleasant, it were an injury and sullenness against nature, not to go out and see her riches, and partake in her rejoicing with heaven and earth.
Page xxvii - 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 xvi - Kirkton Jean till Monday. She prophesied that, late or soon, Thou would be found deep drown'd in Doon, Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk By Alloway's auld, haunted kirk.
Page 200 - As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, So deep in luve am I, And I will luve thee still, my dear, Till a' the seas gang dry. Till a" the seas gang dry, my dear, And the rocks melt wi
Page 27 - YE banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair; How can ye chant, ye little birds, And I sae weary, fu' o

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