Orange lily, by the author of 'Queenie'. by M. Crommelin

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الصفحة 185 - The sea of Fortune doth not ever flow ; She draws her favours to the lowest ebb : Her tides have equal times to come and go ; Her loom doth weave the fine and coarsest web; No joy so great but runneth to an end, No hap so hard but may in fine amend.
الصفحة 308 - Love wont to gae! 1 lean'd my back unto an aik, I thought it was a trusty tree ; But first it bow'd and syne it brak — Sae my true Love did lichtlie me. O waly, waly, but love be bonny A little time while it is new! But when 'tis auld, it waxeth cauld, And fades awa
الصفحة 16 - Perception of distress in others is a natural excitement, passively to pity, and actively to relieve it : but let a man set himself to attend to, inquire out, and relieve distressed persons, and he cannot but grow less and less sensibly affected with the various miseries of life, with which he must become acquainted; when yet, at the same time, benevolence, considered not as a passion, but as a practical principle of action, will strengthen : and whilst he passively compassionates the distressed...
الصفحة 225 - Since there's no help, come, let us kiss and part! Nay, I have done. You get no more of me! And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart, That thus so cleanly I myself can free. Shake hands for ever! Cancel all our vows! And when we meet at any time again, Be it not seen in either of our brows That we one jot of former love retain.
الصفحة 56 - Belyve,* the elder bairns come drapping in, At service out, amang the farmers roun
الصفحة 155 - Kilmeny came hame ! And O, her beauty was fair to see, But still and steadfast was her ee ! Such beauty bard may never declare, For there was no pride nor passion there ; And the soft desire of maiden's een In that mild face could never be seen.
الصفحة 132 - Over the mountains And over the waves, Under the fountains And under the graves ; Under floods that are deepest, Which Neptune obey ; Over rocks that are steepest Love will find out the way.
الصفحة 232 - A nd will I see his face again ? And will I hear him speak ? I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought, In troth I'm like to greet!
الصفحة 214 - The labourer with the bending scythe is seen, Shaving the surface of the waving green ; Of all her native pride disrobes the land, And meads lays waste before his sweeping hand ; While with the mounting sun the meadow glows, The fading herbage round he loosely throws ; But if some sign portend a lasting shower, The...

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