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baith befoir beſt Born cauſe Courage Danger dead death doun dyed Experience face fair fall fame faſt fate fell firſt frae furth green grene gude haif hand hard heart heid heir honour Hope hour king kirk land laſt late live Lord lyke maid mair micht mony morn moſt muſt nane Nature never night nocht o'er once owre pain Peblis plain play Quha quhair Quhat Quhen Quhilk Quhyle quod Quoth Reaſon richt round ſae ſaid ſaw ſay ſcho ſee ſhall ſhe ſhould ſome ſtill ſum tell thair thame Thay thee theſe thing thocht thoſe thou thow throw trow tyme wald whoſe wind zour
Página 152 - Well do I know thee by thy trusty yew, Cheerless, unsocial plant ; that loves to dwell 'Midst skulls and coffins, epitaphs and worms: Where light-heel'd ghosts, and visionary shades, Beneath the wan cold moon (as fame reports) Embodied, thick, perform their mystic rounds. No other merriment, dull tree, is thine.
Página 140 - Strew'd with death's spoils, the spoils of animals, Savage and tame, and full of dead men's bones? The very turf on which we tread once liv'd ; And we that live must lend our carcasses To cover our own offspring : in their turns They too must cover theirs.
Página 139 - In the world's hale and undegenerate days Could scarce have leisure for. Fools that we are ! Never to think of Death and of ourselves At the same time : as if to learn to die Were no concern of ours.
Página 6 - Tane leif at nature with ane orient blast ; And lusty May, that muddir is of flouris, Had maid the birdis to begyn thair houris...
Página 139 - See yonder maker of the dead man's bed, The sexton, hoary-headed chronicle! Of hard unmeaning face, down which ne'er stole A gentle tear; with mattock in his hand, Digs thro* whole rows of kindred and acquaintance, By far his juniors.
Página 154 - Farewell, ye blooming fields ! ye cheerful plains ! Enough for me the church-yard's lonely mound, Where Melancholy with still Silence reigns, And the rank grass waves o'er the cheerless ground.
Página 152 - midst the wreck of things which were; There lie interr'd the more illustrious dead. The wind is up: hark ! how it howls ! Methinks Till now, I never heard a sound so dreary...
Página 149 - The rural pipe and merry lay No more shall cheer the happy day : No social scenes of gay delight Beguile the dreary winter night : No strains but those of sorrow flow, And...