Scots, wha haewi' Wallace bled, Scots, whamBruce has aftenled, Welcome to your gory bed, Or to Victorie! Now's the day, and now's the hour; See the front o'battle lour; See approach proud Edward's power- Chains and Slaverie! Wha will be a traitor knave? Wha can fill a coward's grave? Whasaebase as be a Slave? Let
Sing on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough, Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain, See aged Winter, 'mid his surly reign, At thy blythe carol, clears his furrowed brow. So in lone Poverty's dominion drear, Sits meek Content with light, unanxious heart; Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part, Nor asks if
Ye hypocrites! are these your pranks? To murder men and give God thanks! Desist, for shame!-proceed nofurther; God won't accept your thanks for Murther!
The last time I came o'er the moor, And left Maria's dwelling, What throes, what tortures passing cure, Were in my bosom swelling: Condemn'd to see my rival's reign, While I in secret languish; To feel a fire in every vein, Yet dare not speak my anguish. Love's veriest wretch, despairing, I Fain, fain, my
Still anxious to secure your partial favour, And not less anxious, sure, this night, than ever, A Prologue, Epilogue, orsome such matter, 'Twould vamp my bill, said I, if nothing better; So sought a poet, roosted near the skies, Told him I came to feast my curious eyes; Said, nothing like his works was ever
Behold the hour, the boat arrive; Thou goest, the darling of my heart; Sever'd from thee, can I survive, ButFate has will'd and we must part. I'll often greetthe surging swell, Yondistant Isle will often hail: "E'en here I took the last farewell; There, latest mark'd her vanish'd sail." Along the solitary shore, While flitting
Blythe haeI been on yonhill, As the lambs before me; Careless ilka thought and free, As the breeze flew o'er me; Now naelanger sport and play, Mirth orsang can please me; Lesley is saefair and coy, Care and anguish seize me. Heavy, heavy is the task, Hopeless love declaring; Trembling, I downochtbutglow'r, Sighing, dumb despairing!
Braw, brawlads on Yarrow-braes, They rove amangthe blooming heather; But Yarrow braes, nor Ettrick shaws Can match the lads o' Galla Water. Butthere is ane, a secret ane, Aboonthem a'I loe him better; And I'll be his, and he'll be mine, The bonielad o' Galla Water. Altho' his daddie was nae laird, And tho' I
By Allan stream I chanc'd to rove, While Phoebus sank beyond Benledi; The winds are whispering thro' the grove, The yellow corn was waving ready: I listen'd to a lover's sang, An'thought on youthfu' pleasures mony; And aye the wild-wood echoes rang- "O, dearly do I love thee, Annie! "O, happy be the woodbine bower,