184 quotes
The hawthorn I will pu' wi' its lock o' siller gray,
Where, like an aged man, it stands at break o' day.
To make a happy fireside clime
To weans and wife,—
That is the true pathos and sublime
Of human life.
O, gie me the lass that has acres o' charms,
O, gie me the lass wi' the weel-stockit farms.
Hey for a Lass wi' a Tocher (1799)
Misled by fancy's meteor ray,
By passion driven;
But yet the light that led astray
Was light from heaven.
O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad:
Tho' father and mither and a' should gae mad.
The sire turns o'er, wi patriarchal grace,
The big ha'-Bible, ance his father's pride.
The Cotter's Saturday Night (1786)
His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony:
Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither—
They had been fou for weeks thegither.
Tam o' Shanter (1790)
But deep this truth impress'd my mind-
Thro' all His works abroad,
The heart benevolent and kind
The most resembles God.
Just now I've taen the fit o' rhyme,
My barmie noddle's working prime.
But my fause luver staw my rose,
And left the thorn wi' me.
Johnson's The Scots Musical Museum (1787)
John Barleycorn got up again,
And sore surprised them all.
An atheist-laugh's a poor exchange
For Deity offended!
If naebody care for me,
I'll care for naebody.
I Hae a Wife o' my Ain (1788)
The minister kiss'd the fiddler's wife,
An' could na preach for thinkin' o't.
My Love She's but a Lassie yet (1790)
O Mary, at thy window be!
It is the wished, the trysted hour.
Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet,
To think how mony counsels sweet,
How mony lengthened, sage advices,
The husband frae the wife despises.
Tam o' Shanter (1793)
But pleasures are like poppies spread;
You seize the flower, its bloom is shed.
Or like the snow falls in the river,
A moment white—then melts forever.
Tam o' Shanter (1793)
Are we a piece of machinery that, like the Æolian harp, passive, takes the impression of the passing accident? Or do these workings argue something within us above the trodden clod?
Dweller in yon dungeon dark,
Hangman of creation, mark!
Who in widow weeds appears,
Laden with unhonoured years,
Noosing with care a bursting purse,
Baited with many a deadly curse?
Ode on Mrs. Oswald (1788)
I once was a maid, tho' I cannot tell when,
And still my delight is in proper young men.
Posthumous Pieces (1799)