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The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,
Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride
With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.
Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife
Their sober wishes never learn’d to stray ;
Along the cool sequester'd vale of life
They kept the noiseless tenour of their way
Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect
Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd Muse,
The place of fame and elegy supply:
And many a holy text around she strews,
That teach the rustic moralist to die.
For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd,
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
Nor cast one longing lingering look behind ?
On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires ;
E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries,
E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.
For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead,
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;
If chance, by lonely contemplation led,
Some kindred spirit shall enquire thy fate,
Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,

Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn
Brushing with hasty steps the dews away,
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn;
• There at the foot of yonder nodding beech
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,
His listless length at noon-tide would he stretch,
And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

'Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove;
Now drooping, woeful-wan, like one forlorn,
Or crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.
One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill,
Along the heath, and near his favourite tree;
Another came; nor yet beside the rill,
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he ;
* The next with dirges due in sad array
Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne, -
Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay
Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.'


Here rests his head upon the lap of earth
A youth, to fortune and to fame unknown;
Fair science frown'd not on his humble birth
And melancholy mark'd him for her own.
Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere ;
Heaven did a recompense as largely send :
He gave to misery (all he had) a tear,
He gain'd from Heaven ('twas all he wish’d) a friend.
No farther seek his merits to disclose,
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,
(There they alike in trembling hope repose,)
The bosom of his Father and his God.

T. Gray


O Mary, at thy window be,
It is the wish'd, the trysted hour !
Those smiles and glances let me see
That make the miser's treasure poor :
How blithely wad I bid the stoure,
A weary slave frae sun to sun,
Could I the rich reward secure,
The lovely Mary Morison.

Yestreen when to the trembling string
The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha',
To thee my fancy took its wing,-
I sat, but neither heard nor saw :
Tho' this was fair, and that was braw,
And yon the toast of a' the town,
I sigh’d, and said amang them a',
'Ye are na Mary Morison.'
O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace
Wha for thy sake wad gladly dee?
Or canst thou break that heart of his,
Whase only faut is loving thee?
If love for love thou wilt na gie,
At least be pity to me shown;
A thought ungentle canna be
The thought of Mary Morison.

R. Burns



O saw ye bonnie Lesley

As she gaed o'er the border ? She's gane, like Alexander,

To spread her conquests farther.
To see her is to love her,

And love but her for ever ;
For Nature made her what she is,

And ne'er made sic anither!
Thou art a queen, Fair Lesley,

Thy subjects we, before thee; Thou art divine, Fair Lesley,

The hearts o' men adore thee.

The Deil he could na scaith thee,

Or aught that wad belang thee ; He'd look into thy bonnie face,

And say “I canna wrang thee!!

The Powers aboon will tent thee;

Misfortune sha' na steer thee ;
Thou’rt like themselves sae lovely

That ill they'll ne'er let near thee.
Return again, Fair Lesley,

Return to Caledonie !
That we may brag we hae a lass
There's nane again sae bonnie.

R. Burns


O my Luve's like a red, red rose

That's newly sprung in June : O my Luve's like the melodie

That's sweetly play'd in tune.
As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,

So deep in luve am I:
And I will luve thee still, my dear,

Till a' the seas gang dry :
Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,

And the rocks melt wi' the sun;
I will luve thee still, my dear,

While the sands o' life shall run. And fare thee weel, my only Luve !

And fare thee weel awhile ; And I will come again, my Luve, Tho' it were ten thousand mile.

R. Burns


Je banks and braes and streams around

The castle o' Montgomery,
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,
Your waters never drumlie!


There simmer first unfauld her robes,

And there the langest tarry ;
For there I took the last fareweel

O’ my sweet Highland Mary.
How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk,

How rich the hawthorn's blossom,
As underneath their fragrant shade

I clasp'd her to my bosom!
The golden hours on angel wings

Flew o'er me and my dearie ;
For dear to me as light and life

Was my sweet Highland Mary.
Wi' mony a vow and lock'd embrace

Our parting was fu' tender ;
And pledging aft to meet again,

We tore oursels asunder ;
But, Oh ! fell Death's untimely frost,

That nipt my flower sae early !
Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay,

That wraps my Highland Mary!
O pale, pale now,


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.

R. Burns



When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye at

And a' the world to rest are gane,
The waes o' my heart fa’ in showers frae my e'e,
While my gudeman lies sound by me.

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