The modern Scottish minstrel; or, The songs of Scotland of the past half century, with memoirs of the poets, and specimens in English verse of modern Gaelic bards, by C. Rogers

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Charles Rogers
Black, 1856
 

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Стр. 179 - scapes i' the imminent deadly breach, Of being taken by the insolent foe And sold to slavery, of my redemption thence And...
Стр. 15 - A WET sheet and a flowing sea, A wind that follows fast And fills the white and rustling sail And bends the gallant mast...
Стр. 235 - The burn sang to the trees, And we with Nature's heart in tune. Concerted harmonies; And on the knowe abune the burn, For hours thegither sat In the silentness o' joy, till baith Wi
Стр. 234 - And blind my een wi' tears : They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears. And sair and sick I pine, As memory idly summons up The blithe blinks o
Стр. 246 - Beauty embodied to- oar sight, A type of heaven. So dear to us thou wert, thou art Even less thine own self than a part Of mine and of thy mother's heart, Casa Wappy! Thy bright, brief day knew no decline — 'Twas cloudless joy ; Sunrise and night alone were thine.
Стр. 16 - I heard a fair one cry; But give to me the snoring breeze And white waves heaving high; And white waves heaving high, my boys, The good ship tight and free — The world of waters is our home, And merry men are we.
Стр. 183 - From the lone shieling of the misty island Mountains divide us, and the waste of seas — Yet still the blood is strong, the heart is Highland, And we in dreams behold the Hebrides: Fair these broad meads, &c.
Стр. 233 - The luve o' life's young day ! The fire that's blawn on Beltane e'en May weel be black gin Yule; But blacker fa' awaits the heart Where first fond luve grows cule. 0 dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, The thochts o" bygane years Still fling their shadows ower my path And blind my een wi...
Стр. 75 - Behave yourseP before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk ; Nor heat my cheeks wi' your mad freaks, But aye be douce before folk. Ye tell me that my lips are sweet, Sic tales, I doubt, are a
Стр. 257 - Twas a dream of those ages of darkness and blood, When the minister's home was the mountain and wood ; When in Wellwood's dark valley the standard of Zion, All bloody and torn 'mong the heather was lying.

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