H―, thou return'st from Thames, whose naiads long. Hark! 't is the twanging horn! O'er yonder bridge Ha! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin ferlie His eyes, in gloomy socket taught to roll His grandeur he derived from Heaven alone How oft upon yon eminence our pace If aught of oaten stop or pastoral song. Is there for honest poverty. It is not, Celia, in our power I travelled through a land of men I was a stricken deer that left the herd I went to the Garden of Love I would not enter on my list of friends John Anderson, my jo, John Last May a braw wooer cam down the lang glen Lavinia is polite, but not profane Let Observation, with extensive view Life is a jest, and all things show it Little lamb, who made thee Long had our dull forefathers slept supine Lords, knights, and squires, the num'rous band Love in fantastic triumph sate Lovely, lasting peace of mind Love still has something of the sea 67 9 144 7 |