The Caledonian Muse:: A Chronological Selection of Scotish Poetry from the Earliest Times

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Joseph Ritson
printed 1785 : and now first published, by Robert Triphook, 23, Old Bond-Street, 1821 - Poetry - 260 pages
 

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Page 158 - I prov'd the labours of thy love, And the warm efforts of the gentle heart, Anxious to please.
Page 157 - And lightly tripping o'er the long flat stones (With nettles skirted, and with moss o'ergrown) That tell in homely phrase who lie below ; Sudden he starts ! and hears, or thinks he hears, The sound of something purring at his heels ; Full fast he flies, and dares not look behind him, Till out of breath he overtakes his fellows ; Who gather round, and wonder at the tale Of horrid apparition tall and ghastly, That walks at dead of night, or takes his stand O'er some new-open'd grave; and, strange to...
Page 155 - WHILST some affect the sun, and some the shade, Some flee the city, some the hermitage ; Their aims as various, as the roads they take In journeying through life ; — the task be mine To paint the gloomy horrors of the tomb ; Th' appointed place of rendezvous, where all These travellers meet.
Page 102 - But, Sacred Saviour, with thy words I woo Thee to forgive, and not be bitter to Such as thou know'st do not know what they do.
Page 156 - See yonder hallow'd fane ! the pious work Of names once fam'd, now dubious or forgot, And buried 'midst the wreck of things which were : There lie interr'd the more illustrious dead. The wind is up : hark ! how it howls ! Methinks, Till now, I never heard a sound so dreary ; Doors creak, and windows clap, and night's foul bird...
Page 156 - Thy long-extended realms, and rueful wastes ! Where nought but silence reigns, and night, dark night...
Page 143 - See yonder maker of the dead man's bed, The sexton, hoary-headed chronicle! Of hard unmeaning face, down which ne'er stole A gentle tear; with mattock in his hand, Digs thro* whole rows of kindred and acquaintance, By far his juniors.
Page 12 - Tane leif at nature with ane orient blast ; And lusty May, that muddir is of flouris, Had maid the birdis to begyn thair houris...
Page 158 - Farewell, ye blooming fields ! ye cheerful plains ! Enough for me the church-yard's lonely mound, Where Melancholy with still Silence reigns, And the rank grass waves o'er the cheerless ground.
Page 153 - Thy tow'ring spirit now is broke, Thy neck is bended to the yoke. What foreign arms could never quell, By civil rage and rancour fell. The rural pipe and merry lay No more shall cheer the happy day : No social scenes of gay delight Beguile the dreary winter night : No strains but those of sorrow flow, And...

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