Poems & songs . ran wi speed :A friend mair faithfu neer cam nigh him Than Mailie dead. I wat she was a sheep o sense,An could behave hersel wi mense :Ill sayt, she never brak a fence, Thro thievish bardie, lanely, keeps the spence* Sin Mailies dead. Or, if he wanders up the howe, Her living image in her yowe Comes bleating to him, owre the knowe. Forbits o bread ;An down the briny pearls rowe For Mailie dead. She was nae get o moorland tips, Wi tawted ket an hairy hips; For her forbears were brought in ships Frae yont the Tweed :A bonnier fieesh neer crossd the clips Than Mailie dea
Poems & songs . ran wi speed :A friend mair faithfu neer cam nigh him Than Mailie dead. I wat she was a sheep o sense,An could behave hersel wi mense :Ill sayt, she never brak a fence, Thro thievish bardie, lanely, keeps the spence* Sin Mailies dead. Or, if he wanders up the howe, Her living image in her yowe Comes bleating to him, owre the knowe. Forbits o bread ;An down the briny pearls rowe For Mailie dead. She was nae get o moorland tips, Wi tawted ket an hairy hips; For her forbears were brought in ships Frae yont the Tweed :A bonnier fieesh neer crossd the clips Than Mailie dead. Wae worth the man wha first did shapeThat vile, wanchancie thing—a rape !It maks guid fellows girn an gape, Wi chokin dread;An Robins bonnet wave wi crape, For Mailie dead. * Shuts himself up in the parlour with his sorrow. MACPHERSOWS FAREWELL. 59 Oh, a ye bards on bonny Doon !An wha on Ayr your chanters tune !Come, join the melancholious croon O Robins reed !His heart will never get aboon His Mailie MACPHERSONS Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong, The wretchs destinie !Macphersons time will not be long On yonder gallows-tree. POEMS BY ROBERT BURNS. Sae rantingly, sae wantonly, Sae dauntingly gaed he ;He playd a spring, and dancd it round, Below the gallows-tree. Oh ! what is death but parting breath ?— On mony a bloody plainIve dard his face, and in this place I scorn him yet again ! Untie these bands from off my hands, And bring to me my sword !And theres no a man in all Scotland But Ill brave him at a word. Ive livd a life of sturt and strife ; I die by treacherie :It burns my heart I must depart And not avenged be. Now farewell light—thou sunshine bright, And all beneath the sky !May coward shame distain his name, The wretch that dares not die ! EPISTLE TO DAVIE, A BROTHER POET. While winds frae off Ben Lomond blaw,And bar the doors wi driving snaw, And hing us owre the ingle,I set me down to pass the time,And spin a verse or twa o rhyme, In ha
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Keywords: ., bookauthorburnsrob, bookcentury1800, bookdecade1870, bookyear1875
