320. Lines to Sir John Whitefoord, Bart (Robert Burns Poem)
THOU, who thy honour as thy God rever'st, Who, save thy mind's reproach, nought earthly fear'st, To thee this votive ...
THOU, who thy honour as thy God rever'st, Who, save thy mind's reproach, nought earthly fear'st, To thee this votive ...
BY all I lov'd, neglected and forgot, No friendly face e'er lights my squalid cot; Shunn'd, hated, wrong'd, unpitied, unredrest, ...
MY lov'd, my honour'd, much respected friend! No mercenary bard his homage pays; With honest pride, I scorn each selfish ...
THE LAMP of day, with-ill presaging glare, Dim, cloudy, sank beneath the western wave; Th' inconstant blast howl'd thro' the ...
God knows it, I am with you. If to prize Those virtues, priz'd and practis'd by too few, But priz'd, ...
Go, for they call you, shepherd, from the hill; Go, shepherd, and untie the wattled cotes! No longer leave thy ...
We were apart; yet, day by day, I bade my heart more constant be. I bade it keep the world ...
STRAIT is the spot and green the sod From whence my sorrows flow; And soundly sleeps the ever dear Inhabitant ...
IT was upon a Lammas night, When corn rigs are bonie, Beneath the moon's unclouded light, I held awa to ...
BEHOLD the hour, the boat, arrive! My dearest Nancy, O fareweel! Severed frae thee, can I survive, Frae thee whom ...
KNOW thou, O stranger to the fame Of this much lov'd, much honoured name! (For none that knew him need ...
THOU ling'ring star, with lessening ray, That lov'st to greet the early morn, Again thou usher'st in the day My ...
AE fond kiss, and then we sever; Ae fareweel, alas, for ever! Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, Warring ...
O ONCE I lov'd a bonie lass, Ay, and I love her still; And whilst that virtue warms my breast, ...
OF all the numerous ills that hurt our peace, That press the soul, or wring the mind with anguish Beyond ...
ONCE fondly lov'd, and still remember'd dear, Sweet early object of my youthful vows, Accept this mark of friendship, warm, ...
Chor.-Green grow the rashes, O; Green grow the rashes, O; The sweetest hours that e'er I spend, Are spent amang ...
`Now Art has lost its mental charms France shall subdue the world in arms.' So spoke an Angel at my ...
"I die, I die!" the Mother said, "My children die for lack of bread. What more has the merciless Tyrant ...
Thou fair hair'd angel of the evening, Now, while the sun rests on the mountains light, Thy bright torch of ...
"I die, I die!" the Mother said, "My children die for lack of bread. What more has the merciless Tyrant ...
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