Què en diuen els usuaris - Escriviu una ressenya
No hem trobat cap ressenya als llocs habituals.
Altres edicions - Mostra-ho tot
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Pàgina 13 - 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.
Pàgina 204 - But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see. So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?
Pàgina 134 - Guid faith he mauna fa' that ! For a' that, and a' that, Their dignities, and a' that, The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth, Are higher rank than a' that. Then let us pray that come it may, As come it will for a' that ; That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth, May bear the gree, and a' that. For a
Pàgina 54 - Yule night when we were fou, Ha, ha, the wooing o't. Maggie coost her head fu' high, Look'd asklent and unco skeigh, Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh; Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
Pàgina 189 - My Tocher's the bargain ye wad buy ; But an ye be crafty, I am cunnin, Sae ye wi' anither your fortune maun try. Ye're like to the timmer o' yon rotten wood ; Ye're like to the bark o...
Pàgina 48 - Ca' the yowes to the knowes, Ca' them where the heather grows, Ca' them where the burnie rows, My bonie dearie.
Pàgina 164 - Devouring flames, and murdering steel ! The pious mother, doom'd to death, Forsaken, wanders o'er the heath, The bleak wind whistles round her head, Her helpless orphans cry for bread ; Bereft of shelter, food, and friend, She views the shades of night descend, And, stretch'd beneath the' inclement skies, Weeps o'er her tender babes and dies. While the warm blood bedews my veins, And unimpair'd remembrance reigns, Resentment of my country's fate, Within my filial breast shall beat...
Pàgina 9 - A weary lot is thine, fair maid, A weary lot is thine ! To pull the thorn thy brow to braid, And press the rue for wine ! A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien, A feather of the blue, A doublet of the Lincoln green, — No more of me you knew, My love I No more of me you knew.
Pàgina 140 - MY JO. JOHN Anderson my jo, John, When we were first acquent ; Your locks were like the raven, Your bonnie brow was brent ; But now your brow is beld, John Your locks are like the snaw ; But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson my jo. John Anderson my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither ; And mony a canty day, John, We've had wi...