This life, dear Corry, who can doubt?-- Resembles much friend Ewart's[1] wine, When first the rosy drops come out, How beautiful, how clear they shine!...
1. The keen stars were twinkling, And the fair moon was rising among them, Dear Jane! The guitar was tinkling, But the notes were not sweet till you sung them Again.
Two-faced Janus,[1] god of Time! Be my Phoebus while I rhyme; To oblige your crony Swift, Bring our dame a new year's gift; She has got but half a face; Janus, since thou hast a brace,...
While briers an' woodbines budding green, An' paitricks scraichin' loud at e'en, An' morning poussie whidden seen, Inspire my muse, This freedom in an unknown frien'...
While new-ca'd ky, rowte at the stake, An' pownies reek in pleugh or braik, This hour on e'enin's edge I take To own I'm debtor, To honest-hearted, auld Lapraik,...
Our glasses we lift now and drink to our host! "Hurrah!" Give heed to our ditty, we sing you our toast! "Aha!" The first thing appearing is what he was nearing,...
When now my song selects and praises Your forceful name, think not it raises The rallying-flag for battle near; The street-fight shall not reach us here. If sacred poetry's fair hill...
Friend of the dead, and friend of all my days Even since they cast off boyhood, I salute The song saluting friends whose songs are mute With full burnt-offerings of clear-spirited praise....
Why, let the stingless critic chide With all that fume of vacant pride Which mantles o'er the pendant fool, Like vapor on a stagnant pool. Oh! if the song, to feeling true,...
To know just how he suffered would be dear; To know if any human eyes were near To whom he could intrust his wavering gaze, Until it settled firm on Paradise.
Gift of the Hero, on his dying day, To her, whose pity watched, for ever nigh; Oh! could he see the proud, the happy ray, This relic lights up on her generous eye, Sighing, he'd feel how easy 'tis to pay...
Oh albums, albums, how I dread Your everlasting scrap and scrawl! How often wish that from the dead Old Omar would pop forth his head, And make a bonfire of you all!...
Fair inmate of these ivied walls, beneath Whose silent cloisters Ella sleeps in death, Let loftier bards, in rich and glowing lays, Thy gentleness, thy grace, thy virtue praise!...