Poems: Chiefly in the Scottish Dialect

الغلاف الأمامي
B. Fowler, 1786 - 240 من الصفحات
 

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الصفحة 135 - ... how poor religion's pride, In all the pomp of method and of art, When men display to congregations wide Devotion's...
الصفحة 176 - LANG hae thought, my youthfu' friend, A something to have sent you, Tho' it should serve nae ither end Than just a kind memento ; But how the subject theme may gang, Let time and chance determine ; Perhaps, it may turn out a sang, Perhaps, turn out a sermon.
الصفحة 136 - An honest man's the noblest work of God ;" And, certes,* in fair virtue's heavenly road, The cottage leaves the palace far behind. What is a lordling's pomp ? A cumbrous load, Disguising oft the wretch of human kind! Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refined ! O Scotia, my dear, my native soil!
الصفحة 136 - And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pride, Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best, For them and for their little ones provide; But, chiefly, in their hearts with Grace Divine preside.
الصفحة 162 - Mis-spending all thy precious hours Thy glorious, youthful prime! Alternate Follies take the sway; Licentious Passions burn; Which tenfold force gives Nature's law, That Man was made to mourn.
الصفحة 126 - Belyve,* the elder bairns come drapping in, At service out, amang the farmers roun
الصفحة 127 - An' each for other's weelfare kindly spiers : The social hours, swift-wing'd, unnotic'd fleet ; Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears ; The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years ; Anticipation forward points the view. The mother, wi' her needle an' her sheers, Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new; The father mixes a
الصفحة 49 - 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' wrath that day. Leeze me on Drink ! it gi'es us mair Than either School or College : It kindles Wit, it waukens Lair, It pangs us fou o
الصفحة 179 - The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip, To haud the wretch in order; But where ye feel your honor grip, Let that aye be your border; Its slightest touches, instant pause — Debar a' side pretences; And resolutely keep its laws, Uncaring consequences.
الصفحة 130 - I've paced much this weary mortal round, And sage experience bids me this declare 'If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare, One cordial in this melancholy vale, 'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair, In other's arms breathe out the tender tale, Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale.

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