Mein Herz ist im Hochland, mein Herz ist nicht hier;
Mein Herz jagt im Hochland des Waldes Gethier;
Es jagt dort den Hirsch und es folgt dort dem Reh –
Mein Herz ist im Hochland, wo immer ich geh’.
5 Lebwohl, du mein Hochland, lebwohl du mein Nord,
Du Wiege von Tapferkeit, Ehre und Wort;
Wo immer ich wandre, wo immer ich bin,
Die Hügel des...
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Wild rose of Alloway! my thanks;
Thou ’mindst me of that autumn noon
When first we met upon “the banks
And braes of bonny Doon.”Like thine, beneath the thorn-tree’s bough,
My sunny hour was glad and brief;
We ’ve crossed the winter sea, and thou
Art withered—flower and leaf.And will not thy death-doom be mine—...
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Of heavenly stature, but most human smile,
Gyved with our faults he stands,
Truth’s white and Love’s red roses tendering us,
Whose thorns are in his hands. -
The Day returns, my bosom burns;
The blissful day we twa did meet;
Though winter wild in tempest toiled,
Ne’er summer sun was half sae sweet.
Than a’ the pride that loads the tide,
And crosses o’er the sultry line,—
Than kingly robes, and crowns and globes,
Heaven gave me more; it made thee mine.While day and night can...
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A Poet’s Epitaph
STOP, mortal! Here thy brother lies,—
The poet of the poor.
His books were rivers, woods, and skies,
The meadow and the moor;
His teachers were the torn heart’s wail,
The tyrant, and the slave,
The street, the factory, the jail,
The palace,—and the grave!
Sin met thy brother... -
On Receiving a Sprig of Heather in Blossom
NO more these simple flowers belong
To Scottish maid and lover;
Sown in the common soil of song,
They bloom the wide world over.In smiles and tears, in sun and showers,
The minstrel and the heather,
The deathless singer and the flowers
He sang of live together.Wild...
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Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
and never brought to mind ?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
and auld lang syne ?
CHORUS
For auld lang syne, my dear,...The Lamp burns sure — within —
Tho' Serfs — supply the Oil —
It matters not the busy Wick —
At her phosphoric toil!
The Slave — forgets — to fill —
The Lamp — burns golden — on —
Unconscious that the oil is out —
As that the Slave — is gone.As I stood by yon roofless tower,
Where the wa'flower scents the dewy air,
Where the howlet mourns in her ivy bower,
And tells the midnight moon her care.
The winds were laid, the air was still,
The stars they shot alang the sky;
The fox was howling on the hill,
And the distant echoing...