Poems, Chiefly in the Scottish Dialect, Том 1W. Creech, 1798 |
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aith Amang ance Auld Brig baith Bard bleft bonie braw breaſt BRIG canna cloſe countra Cuifs dear Deil douce e'en e'er Ev'n ev'ry faft fair fide filly fimple fing fleep focial fome foul frae ftan ftane ftill ftood ftrong fure fweet gang gaun gies guid Halloween hame heart Heav'n honeft Hornbook houſe ither juft juſt laffes laft Laigh Kirk Laird laſt lefs leſs leuk loft Mailie dead maun monie muckle Mufe muft mutchkin Nae mair ne'er night o'er out-owre owre pleaſure poor pow'r Profe raiſe rhyme rifing ruftic Samfon's dead Scotch Scotland ſee ſhall ſhe ſome ſtill Tam Samfon's dead tell thee thegither There's thou thrang thro unco warft weary weel Weft Whare Whisky Whyles ye'll ye're
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Страница 202 - That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble Has cost thee mony a weary nibble! Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble, But house or hald, To thole the winter's sleety dribble, An
Страница 189 - Whyles owre a linn the burnie plays, As thro' the glen it wimpl't; Whyles round a rocky scar it strays; Whyles in a wiel it dimpl't; Whyles glitter'd to the nightly rays, Wi' bickerin, dancin dazzle ; Whyles cookit underneath the braes, Below the spreading hazel, Unseen that night.
Страница 103 - Wi bitter claw; An lows'd his ill-tongu'd wicked scaul— Was warst ava? But a' your doings to rehearse, Your wily snares an fechtin fierce, Sin...
Страница 98 - To scaud poor wretches! Hear me, Auld Hangie, for a wee, An' let poor damned bodies be; I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie, Ev'n to a deil, To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me, An
Страница 202 - An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain, For promis'd joy. Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me ! The present only toucheth thee : But, Och ! I backward cast my e'e On prospects drear ! An...
Страница 169 - Yes, let the rich deride, the proud disdain. These simple blessings of the lowly train ; To me more dear, congenial to my heart, One native charm than all the gloss of art.
Страница 98 - To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me, An' hear us squeel! Great is thy pow'r, an' great thy fame; Far kend an' noted is thy name; An' tho' yon lowin heugh's thy hame, Thou travels far; An' faith! thou's neither lag nor lame, Nor blate nor scaur. Whyles, ranging like a roarin lion For prey, a...