Car poems

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515. Song—O let me in this ae night

© Robert Burns

O LASSIE, are ye sleepin yet,
Or are ye waukin, I wad wit?
For Love has bound me hand an’ fit,
And I would fain be in, jo.

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452. Epigram pinned to Mrs. Riddell’s carriage

© Robert Burns

IF you rattle along like your Mistress’ tongue,
Your speed will outrival the dart;
But a fly for your load, you’ll break down on the road,
If your stuff be as rotten’s her heart.

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416. Song—Logan Braes

© Robert Burns

O LOGAN, sweetly didst thou glide,
That day I was my Willie’s bride,
And years sin syne hae o’er us run,
Like Logan to the simmer sun:

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298. Prologue spoken at the Theatre of Dumfries

© Robert Burns

For our sincere, tho’ haply weak endeavours,
With grateful pride we own your many favours;
And howsoe’er our tongues may ill reveal it,
Believe our glowing bosoms truly feel it.

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527. Song—Address to the Woodlark

© Robert Burns

O STAY, sweet warbling woodlark, stay,
Nor quit for me the trembling spray,
A hapless lover courts thy lay,
Thy soothing, fond complaining.

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365. Lines on Fergusson, the Poet

© Robert Burns

ILL-FATED genius! Heaven-taught Fergusson!
What heart that feels and will not yield a tear,
To think Life’s sun did set e’er well begun
To shed its influence on thy bright career.

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223. Song—The Chevalier’s Lament

© Robert Burns

THE SMALL birds rejoice in the green leaves returning,
The murmuring streamlet winds clear thro’ the vale;
The primroses blow in the dews of the morning,
And wild scatter’d cowslips bedeck the green dale:

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Ruines du coeur

© François Coppée

Mon coeur était jadis comme un palais romain,
Tout construit de granits choisis, de marbres rares.
Bientôt les passions, comme un flot de barbares,
L'envahirent, la hache ou la torche à la main.

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Let Us Go

© Algernon Charles Swinburne

Let us go hence, my songs; she will not hear.

Let us go hence together without fear;

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535. Song—The Braw Wooer

© Robert Burns

LAST May, a braw wooer cam doun the lang glen,
And sair wi’ his love he did deave me;
I said, there was naething I hated like men—
The deuce gae wi’m, to believe me, believe me;
The deuce gae wi’m to believe me.

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122. The Lass o’ Ballochmyle

© Robert Burns

’TWAS even—the dewy fields were green,
On every blade the pearls hang;
The zephyr wanton’d round the bean,
And bore its fragrant sweets alang:

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231. Epistle to Robert Graham, Esq., of Fintry

© Robert Burns

WHEN Nature her great master-piece design’d,
And fram’d her last, best work, the human mind,
Her eye intent on all the mazy plan,
She form’d of various parts the various Man.

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549. Epistle to Colonel de Peyster

© Robert Burns

But lest you think I am uncivil
To plague you with this draunting drivel,
Abjuring a’ intentions evil,
I quat my pen,
The Lord preserve us frae the devil!
Amen! Amen!

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71. Second Epistle to Davie

© Robert Burns

Haud to the Muse, my daintie Davie:
The warl’ may play you mony a shavie;
But for the Muse, she’ll never leave ye,
Tho’ e’er sae puir,
Na, even tho’ limpin wi’ the spavie
Frae door tae door.

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Simon Lee: The Old Huntsman

© William Wordsworth

.  With an incident in which he was concerned

  In the sweet shire of Cardigan,

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317. Song—The Banks o’ Doon (Second Version)

© Robert Burns

YE flowery banks o’ bonie Doon,
How can ye blume sae fair?
How can ye chant, ye little birds,
And I sae fu’ o care!

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500. Song—Craigieburn Wood (Second Version)

© Robert Burns

SWEET fa’s the eve on Craigieburn,
And blythe awakes the morrow;
But a’ the pride o’ Spring’s return
Can yield me nocht but sorrow.

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318. Song—The Banks o’ Doon (Third Version)

© Robert Burns

YE banks and braes o’ bonie Doon,
How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair?
How can ye chant, ye little birds,
And I sae weary fu’ o’ care!

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550. Song—A Lass wi’ a Tocher

© Robert Burns

AWA’ wi’ your witchcraft o’ Beauty’s alarms,
The slender bit Beauty you grasp in your arms,
O, gie me the lass that has acres o’ charms,
O, gie me the lass wi’ the weel-stockit farms.

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Sonnet 25: The Wisest Scholar

© Sir Philip Sidney

The wisest scholar of the wight most wise
By Phoebus' doom, with sugar'd sentence says,
That Virtue, if it once met with our eyes,
Strange flames of love it in our souls would raise;