Divine Service In The Kirk Of Lamington
As cauld a wind as ever blew, A cauld kirk, anin't butfew: As caulda minister's e'er spak; Ye'sea'be hete'erI come back.
Epigram At Brownhill Inn^1
At Brownhill we always getdainty good cheer, And plenty of bacon each day in the year; We've a'thing that's nice, and mostly in season, Butwhy always Bacon-come, tell me a reason?
Epigram On Miss Davies
Ask why God made the gem so small? And why so huge the granite?- Because God meant mankind should set That higher value on it.
Epistle To John Maxwell, ESQ., Of Terraughty
Health to the Maxwell's veteran Chief! Health, aye unsour'd bycare orgrief: Inspir'd, I turn'd Fate's sibyl leaf, This natal morn, I see thy life is stuff o' prief, Scarce quite half-worn. This day thou metes threescore eleven, And I can tell that bounteous Heaven (The second-sight, ye ken, is given To ilka Poet) On thee
Frae The Friends And Land I Love
Frae the friends and land I love, Driv'n byFortune's fellyspite; Frae my best belov'd I rove, Never mair to taste delight: Never mair maunhope to find Ease frae toil, relief fraecare; When Remembrance wracks the mind, Pleasures butunveil despair. Brightest climes shall mirkappear, Desert ilka blooming shore, Till the Fates, naemairsevere, Friendship, love, and peace
I Hae Been At Crookieden
I Haebeen at Crookieden, My bonie laddie, Highland laddie, Viewing Willie and his men, My bonie laddie, Highland laddie. There our foes that burnt and slew, My bonie laddie, Highland laddie, There, at last, they gattheir due, My bonie laddie, Highland laddie. Satan sits in his black neuk, My bonie laddie, Highland laddie, Breaking sticks
Lament For James, Earl Of Glencairn
The wind blew hollow fraethe hills, Byfits the sun's departing beam Look'd on the fading yellow woods, That wav'd o'er Lugar's winding stream: Beneath a craigysteep, a Bard, Laden with years and meiklepain, In loud lament bewail'd his lord, Whom Death had all untimely ta'en. He lean'd him to an ancient aik, Whose trunk was
Lament Of Mary, Queen Of Scots, On The Approach Of Spring
Now Nature hangs her mantle green On every blooming tree, And spreads her sheets o' daisies white Out o'er the grassy lea; Now Phoebus cheers the crystal streams, And glads the azure skies; But nought can glad the weary wight That fast in durance lies. Now laverocks wake the merry morn Aloft on dewy wing;
Lines Sent To Sir John Whiteford, Bart
Thou, who thy honour as thy God rever'st, Who, save thy mind's reproach, nought earthly fear'st, To thee this votive offering I impart, The tearful tribute of a broken heart. The Friend thou valued'st, I, the Patron lov'd; His worth, his honour, all the world approved: We'll mourn tillwe too go as he has gone,