Poems & songs . s each deep-sunk glen divides, The woods, wild scatterd, clothe their ample sides ; Th outstretching lake, embosomed mong the hills, The eye with wonder and amazement fills; The Tay, meandring sweet in infant pride, The palace, rising on its verdant side; The lawns, wood-fringd in Natures native taste; The hillocks, dropt in Natures careless haste; The arches, striding oer the new-born stream; The village, glittring in the noon-tide beam— # *? * #Poetic ardours in my bosom swell, Lone wandring by the hermits mossy cell: The sweeping theatre of hanging woods; Th incessant roar o
Poems & songs . s each deep-sunk glen divides, The woods, wild scatterd, clothe their ample sides ; Th outstretching lake, embosomed mong the hills, The eye with wonder and amazement fills; The Tay, meandring sweet in infant pride, The palace, rising on its verdant side; The lawns, wood-fringd in Natures native taste; The hillocks, dropt in Natures careless haste; The arches, striding oer the new-born stream; The village, glittring in the noon-tide beam— # *? * #Poetic ardours in my bosom swell, Lone wandring by the hermits mossy cell: The sweeping theatre of hanging woods; Th incessant roar of headlong tumbling floods— # r # #Here Poesy might wake her heavn-taught lyre,And look through Nature with creative fire;Here, to the wrongs of Fate half-reconcild,Misfortunes lightend steps might wander wild ;And Disappointment, in these lonely bounds,Find balm to soothe her bitter, rankling wounds : Here heart-struck Grief might heavn-ward stretch her scan,And injurd Worth forget and pardon man. # # # *. IOO POEMS BY ROBERT BURNS. An hungerd maukin taen her way,To kailyards green, While faithless snaws ilk step betrayWhare she has been. The threshers weary flingin-treeThe lee-lang day had tired me ;An when the day had closed his ee, Far i the west,Ben i the spence, right pensivelie, I gaed to rest. There, lanely, by the ingle cheek,I sat and eyd the spewing reek,That filld, wi hoast-provoking smeek, The auld clay biggin:An heard the restless rattons squeak About the riggin. All in this mottie, misty clime,I backward musd on wasted time,How I had spent my youthfu prime, An done naething,But stringin blethers up in rhyme, For fools to sing. Had I to guid advice but harkit,I might, by this, hae led a market,Or strutted in a bank an clerkit My cash account :While here, half-mad, half-fed, half-sarkit, Is a th amount. I started, muttring, Blockhead : coof!An heavd on high my waukit loof,To swear by a yon starry roof, Or some rash aith,That I, henceforth, would be rhyme-proof,
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Keywords: ., bookauthorburnsrob, bookcentury1800, bookdecade1870, bookyear1875
