A Critique on the Poems of Robert Burns

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J. Brown, 1812 - 70 pages
 

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Page 31 - And wear thou this' — she solemn said, And bound the Holly round my head : The polish'd leaves, and berries red, Did rustling play; And, like a passing thought, she fled In light away.
Page 18 - Now, butt an' ben, the Change-house fills, Wi' yill-caup Commentators: Here's crying out for bakes an' gills, An' there the pint-stowp clatters; While thick an' thrang. an' loud an' lang, Wi' logic, an' wi' Scripture, They raise a din, that in the end Is like to breed a rupture O
Page 7 - I've notic'd, on our Laird's court-day, An' mony a time my heart's been wae, Poor tenant bodies, scant o' cash, How they maun thole a factor's snash : He'll stamp an' threaten, curse an' swear. He'll apprehend them, poind their gear ; While they maun stan', wi' aspect humble, An' hear it a', an' fear an' tremble ! I see how folk live that hae riches ; But surely poor folk maun be wretches.
Page 56 - Shanter, As he frae Ayr ae night did canter, (Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses, For honest men and bonie lasses).
Page 46 - The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace, The big ha-Bible, ance his father's pride; His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside, His lyart haffets wearing thin an' bare; Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, He wales a portion with judicious care; And "Let us worship God!
Page 72 - Coffins stood round, like open presses; That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses; And by some devilish...
Page 18 - How monie hearts this day converts O' sinners and o' lasses ! Their hearts o' stane, gin night, are gane As saft as ony flesh is. There's some are fou o...
Page 72 - Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape; Five tomahawks, wi' bluid red-rusted; Five scimitars, wi' murder crusted; A garter, which a babe had strangled; A knife, a father's throat had mangled, Whom his ain son o...
Page 34 - But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane, In proving foresight may be vain: The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men, Gang aft a-gley, An' lea'e us nought but grief and pain, For promis'd joy.
Page 12 - But bring a Scotsman frae his hill, Clap in his cheek a Highland gill, Say, such is royal George's will, An' there's the foe, He has nae thought but how to kill Twa at a blow. Nae cauld, faint-hearted doublings tease him ; Death comes, wi' fearless eye he sees him ; Wi' bluidy hand a welcome gies him ; An' when he fa's, His latest draught o' breathin lea'es him In faint huzzas.

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