Sidor som bilder

Can the flowers of Summer ever

Gem the wintry wastes of snow?

As on the tree the names we cherish

Stand, though changing seasons roll; So thus enduring thine shall flourish

On the tablet of my soul.

And, since we part, may peace and pleasure,

Flora, here for ever dwell — Every boon and every treasure

Heaven bestows; now fare thee well.


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LO’ED a lassie young and fair,

Ay late and sune, and a' that;
Wi’ hope and fear, and muckle care,

But conquered still for a’ that
For a' that, and a' that,

Her lily hand, and a' that,
She pledged to me, and I her mine,

Afore the priest for a' that.

And sin' our merry bridal e'en,

Hoo doubly blessed and a' that,
My canty Kate and I hae been,

Yet crosses had for a' that,
For a' that, and a' that,

What cared we then for a' that ?
When doon, we aye got up again,

And crooser crawed for a' that.

Though we hae little warldly gear,

Our bite and brat, and a' that,
Frae hameless sorrow's een the tear

Hae aften wiped for a'that

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What's a' the warld ?-a passin' show;

Its honours, wealth, and a' that? If share we not a brother's woe,

Though rich, hoo puir for a' that ? For a' that, and a' that,

Without content, and a' that:
A conscience clear, a hame to cheer,

I'll seek nae mair wi' a' that.




E a' had rowth o'clink yestreen,

And snug in Robin's, canty Robin's: We had our saps wi' glee, I ween

A rare and happy quorum.
Sae sweet we preed the “ tappet hen,”

Fu blithe in Robin's, rantin' Robin's;
Wha aye sae merry brought her ben,

And croonin' Tullochgorum.


But whan the morn began to daw,

O dowf and dowie, dowf and dowie; And ilka back was at the wa',

We could nae raise the jorum.

Sae where were a' our fun and spree,

We had in Robin's, witty Robin's? I'll mind him till the day I dee

The deil can ne'er get o’er him; For toom our pouches grew at last,

Syne sad was Robin, mad was Robin,

Wha damned our drouth as mair we asked,

As mony's dune afore him,

Sae whan the morn, &c.

We did our best without avail,

But surly Robin's, churlish Robin's, Ance feelin' heart had turned to mail,

And cooled the love we bore him: Sae up we gat, and swore an aith,

That friends wi' Robin, menseless Robin, We ne'er would be till our last breath,

Nor wi' him hae a splorum.

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