Robert Anderson Poems
Ah! who is she whose tresses wild,
Bespeak her sorrow's frantic child?
'Tis Kate, whose bosom fraught with woe,
Sweet peace again can never know;
Who, careless, wandering all day long,
Sings to herself this plaintive song:--
``Come Death! thou friend to the distrest,
Srike, strike, at once, this tortur'd breast,
And ease poor Kate, who cannot rest!''
In infancy, her father died:
And she, her mother's only pride,
Was forc'd (hard fate!) at plenty's door
The mite of pity to implore.
But soon, ah! soon an orphan left;
Of ev'ry stay, save Heaven, ...
A Weyfe For Wully Miller
Hout, Wully, lad! cock up thy head,
Nor fash thysel about her;
Nought comes o' nought, sae tek nae thought,
Tou's better far widout her.
Peer man! her fadder weel we ken,
He's but an ass--buird meaker;
But she's town--bred, and, silly gowk!
Thou'd gi'e thy teeth to teake her.