When o'er the hill the eastern star
Tells bughtin'-time is near, my jo;
And owsen frae the furrow'd field
Return sae dowf and weary, O!
Down by the burn, where scented birks
Wi' dew are hangin' clear, my jo,
I'll meet thee on the lea-rig,
My ain kind dearie, O!
In mirkest glen, at midnight hour,
I'd rove and ne'er be eerie, O!
If through that glen I gaed to thee,
My ain kind dearie, O!
Although the night were ne'er sae wild,
And I were ne'er sae weary, O!
I'd meet thee on the lea-rig,
My ain kind dearie, O!
The hunter lo'es the mornin' sun,
To rouse the mountain-deer, my jo;
At noon the fisher seeks the glen,
Alang the burn to steer, my jo.
Gi'e me the hour of gloamin' gray,
It makes my heart sae cheerie, O!
To meet thee on the lea-rig,
My ain kind dearie, O!
In Elgin Churchyard.
Life is a city with many a street;
Death is the market where all men meet:
If Life were a thing which gold could buy,
The poor could not live, and the rich would not die.
Ubi clivo superato
Pecudes sidus eoum
Vocat ad mulctra coactas, et ab agris rediit bos Nimio lassus aratro ;
Mea lux, conveniam te,
Neobule, meus ignis,
Prope rivum et cava saltus, ubi odorata refulget
Pluviis betula gemmis.
Neqve enim, si per opacae
Tenebrosissima silvae
Media nocte vagarer, metus esset mihi dulcem
Repetenti Neobulen:
Etiam si glomeraret
Rabiem nox, etiam si
Pede fesso titubarem, tamen assueto ibi in agro Peterem te, meus ardor.
Capreas exagitantem
Nova montes per apertos
Rapiet lux; colet aestu medio flumen et umbras Sibi piscator amicas:
Ego solus tenebrosam
Celebro vesperis horam,
Mihi qva langvidulum cor recreatur, mihi qva tu Revocaris, Neobule.
Sortitur insignes et imos.
Η πόλις ἔσθ ̓ ὁ βίος, πύκα δὲ λαύρῃσι κέκασται, ἐν δ ̓ ἀγορὴ θάνατος πᾶσι βροτοῖσι μία.
εἰ δ ̓ ἦν ὠνητὸν χρυσῷ βίος, οὐ πολυχρύσω λειπτέος, οὐ πτωχῷ φωτὶ βιωτὸς ἂν ἦν.
Ye winds which sweep the grove's green tops,
And kiss the mountains hoar,
Oh softly stir the ocean-waves
That sleep along the shore;
For my love sails the fairest ship
That wantons on the sea;
Oh bend his mast with pleasant gales,
And waft him hame to me.
Oh leave nae mair the bonnie glen,
Clear stream, and hawthorn grove,
Where first we walked in gloaming gray,
And sighed and looked of love.
For faithless is the ocean-wave,
And faithless is the wind;
Then leave nae mair my heart to break
'Mang Scotland's hills behind.
For me no roseate garlands twine,
But wear them, dearest, in my stead;
Time hath a whiter hand than thine,
And lays it on my head.
Enough to know thy place on earth
Is there where roses latest die;
To know, the steps of youth and mirth
Are thine, that pass me by.
You beat your pate, and fancy wit will come:
Knock as you will, there's nobody at home.
Venti qvi nemorum culmina verritis
Canentiqve iugo figitis oscula,
Undis parcite longum
Per litus recubantibus.
Sponsus noster enim dirigit huc ratem,
Qva non ulla fretis pulcrior insilit
Afris: O bonus adflans
Deducat Zephyrus domum.
Tu vallem patriam, tu vitreum cole
Fontem et dulce nemus, sero ubi vespere
Suspiravimus una et
Vultu praestitimus fidem:
Saxis neve tuo sub borealibus
Me desiderio neglige inemori,
Fallacisqve Favoni
Fallacisqve maris sciens.
Parce mihi, virgo, roseas properare corollas,
Munera qvae fronti sint magis apta tuae.
Aetatemne vides caput hoc contingere? Palma
Vel tua prae tali candida palma minus.
Sat mihi, terrarum qvacumqve habitaveris ora,
Parcat hiems serae serior ipsa rosae;
Cumqve iocus praeter me fugerit atque iuventas,
Agnoscam gressus, sat mihi, signa tui.
Qvi cerebrum pulsas, venturaqve grandia credis Consilia, a tandem desine: nemo domi est.
The Cypress Wreath.
O lady, twine no wreath for me,
Or twine it of the cypress-tree.
Too lively glow the lilies light,
The varnished holly's all too bright,
The may-flower and the eglantine
May shade a brow less sad than mine
But, lady, weave no wreath for me,
Or weave it of the cypress-tree.
Let dimpled Mirth his temples twine
With tendrils of the laughing vine;
The manly oak, the pensive yew,
To patriot and to sage be due;
The myrtle-bough bids lovers live,
But that Matilda will not give;
Then, lady, twine no wreath for me,
Or twine it of the cypress-tree.
Let merry England proudly rear
Her blended roses, bought so dear;
Let Albyn bind her bonnet blue
With heath and harebell dipped in dew;
On favoured Erin's crest be seen
The flower she loves of emerald green:
But, lady, twine no wreath for me,
Or twine it of the cypress-tree.
Strike the wild harp, while maids prepare
The ivy meet for minstrel's hair;
And, while his crown of laurel-leaves
With bloody hand the victor weaves,
Let the loud trump his triumph tell;
But when you hear the passing bell,
Then, lady, twine a wreath for me,
And twine it of the cypress-tree.
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