Robert Burns

To liken them to your auld-warld squad,
I must needs say comparisons are odd.

To liken them to your auld-warld squad,
I must needs say comparisons are odd.

Mourn, little harebells, o'er the lea;
Ye stately foxgloves fair to see!
Ye woodbines, hanging bonnilie
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Mourn, little harebells, o'er the lea;
Ye stately foxgloves fair to see!
Ye woodbines, hanging bonnilie
In scented bowers!
Ye roses on your thorny tree
The first o' flow'rs.

And let us mind, faint heart ne'er wan
A lady fair.
Wha does the utmost that he read more

And let us mind, faint heart ne'er wan
A lady fair.
Wha does the utmost that he can
Will whyles do mair.

Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale.
from the poem
The Cotter’s Saturday Night.

Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale.
from the poem
The Cotter’s Saturday Night.

They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright!

They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright!