Oh, last and best of Scots! who didst maintain Thy country's freedom from a foreign reign; New people fill the land now thou art gone, New gods the temples, and new kings the throne....
I ask'd thee oft what poets thou hast read, And lik'st the best? Still thou repli'st, The dead. I shall, ere long, with green turfs cover'd be; Then sure thou'lt like, or thou wilt envy, me.
'See, sir, here's the grand approach, This way is for his Grace's coach: There lies the bridge, and here's the clock, Observe the lion and the cock, The spacious court, the colonnade,...
I ask'd thee oft what poets thou hast read, And lik'st the best. Still thou reply'st: The dead. I shall, ere long, with green turfs cover'd be; Then sure thou'lt like or thou wilt envy me.
Up, sailor boy, 'tis day! The west wind blowing, The spring tide flowing, Summon thee hence away. Didst thou not hear yon soaring swallow sing? Chirp, chirp,--in every note he seemed to say...
Now the busy screw is churning, Now the horrid sirens blow; Now are India's guests returning Home from India's Greatest Show; Now the gleeful Asiatic Speeds them on their wild career,...
Ha monny young folk are langin for th' fourteenth o' February! An ha mony old pooastmen wish it ud niver come? Sawr owd maids an' crusty owd bachelors wonder 'at fowk should have noa moor sense nor to waste ther brass on sich l...
"On Valentine's day, will a gooid gooise lay," is a varry old sayin', an' aw dare say a varry gooid en; an' if all th' geese wod nobbut lay o' that day ther'd be moor chonce o' eggs bein' cheap. But it isn't th' geese we think ...
Oh! I wish I were a tiny browny bird from out the south, Settled among the alder-holts, and twittering by the stream; I would put my tiny tail down, and put up my tiny mouth,...
I was thinking last night, as I sat in the cars, With the charmingest prospect of cinders and stars, Next Thursday is - bless me! - how hard it will be, If that cannibal president calls upon me! ...
Hither from Mexico I came, To serve a proud Iernian dame: Was long submitted to her will; At length she lost me at quadrille. Through various shapes I often pass'd, Still hoping to have rest at last;...
A paper book is sent by Boyle, Too neatly gilt for me to soil. Delany sends a silver standish, When I no more a pen can brandish. Let both around my tomb be placed: As trophies of a Muse deceased;...
By holy zeal inspired, and led by fame, To thee, once favourite isle, with joy I came; What time the Goth, the Vandal, and the Hun, Had my own native Italy[1] o'errun. Ierne, to the world's remotest parts,...