The Illustrated Book of Scottish Songs: From the Sixteenth to the Nineteenth Century

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N. Cooke, 1854 - 325 Seiten
 

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Seite 114 - I'll wage thee. Who shall say that Fortune grieves him, While the star of hope she leaves him ? Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me ; Dark despair around benights me. I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy, Naething could resist my Nancy ; But to see her was to love her ; Love but her, and love for ever. Had we never loved sae kindly, Had we never loved sae blindly, Never met — or never parted, We had ne'er been broken-hearted.
Seite 114 - I hear her in the tunefu' birds, I hear her charm the air : There's not a bonnie flower that springs By fountain, shaw...
Seite 296 - MY HEART'S in the Highlands, my heart is not here; My heart's in the Highlands, a-chasing the deer; Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe — My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go.
Seite 222 - Ha, ha, the wooing o't. Something in her bosom wrings, For relief a sigh she brings : And O ! her een they spak sic things ! Ha, ha, the wooing o't. Duncan was a lad o...
Seite 297 - My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here, My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer, A-chasing the wild deer and following the roe — My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go!
Seite 126 - A chain of gold ye sail not lack, Nor braid to bind your hair ; Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk, Nor palfrey fresh and fair ; And you, the foremost o' them a', Shall ride our forest queen " — But aye she loot the tears down fa
Seite 110 - O pale, pale now, those rosy lips, I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly ! And closed for aye the sparkling glance That dwelt on me sae kindly : And mouldering now in silent dust That heart that lo'ed me dearly ! But still within my bosom's core Shall live my Highland Mary.
Seite 216 - THAT AND A' THAT" Is there, for honest Poverty, That hangs his head, and a' that! The coward slave, we pass him by, We dare be poor for a
Seite 107 - YE banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair; How can ye chant, ye little birds, And I sae weary, fu' o
Seite 125 - The hand of the reaper Takes the ears that are hoary, But the voice of the weeper Wails manhood in glory. The autumn winds rushing Waft the leaves that are searest, But our flower was in flushing, When blighting was nearest.

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