INDEX To the Poetry, in the Alphabetical Order of the First Lines. Ance mair I bail thee, thou gloomy December! 328 Awa wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's alarms, 255 Come let me take thee to my breast, Contented wi' little and cantie wi' mair, 280 72 314 183 95 206 160. 288 102 205 Deluded Fate gave the word, the arrow sped, . 340 Flow gently sweet Afton among thy green braes 333 Forlorn, my love, no comfort near, 246 387 Friend of the poet tried and leal, Here is the glen, and here the bower, 311 92 359 43 48 151 Here's a bealth to ane I lo'e dear, 261 Here where the Scottish muse immortal lives, 153 How can my poor heart be glad, How cold is that bosom which folly once fired, How cruel are the parents How lang and dreary is the night, I call no goddess to inspire my strains, I gaed a waefu' gate, yestreen, In simmer when the bay was mawn, Is there, for honest poverty, It was the charming month of May, Jockey's ta'en the parting kiss, John Anderson my jo, John, Keen blaws the wind o'er Donocht-head, Kind Sir, I've read your paper through 156 371 232 178 145 401 298 319 216 191 397 302 175 399 357 Lassie Last May a braw wooer cam down the lang glen, 248 Musing on the roaring ocean, 279 My Chloris, mark bow green the groves, 188 393 304 338 390 398 377 384 370 213 270 240 103 O bad the malt thy strength of mind, O ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten, O Lassie, art thou sleeping yet Page. 74 O Logan, sweetly didst thou glide O Luve will venture in where it daur na weel be seen, 323 O wat ge wha's in yon town, O wha is she that lo'es me, O whistle and I'll come to you my O Willie brew'd a peck o' maut, Sae flaxen were her ringlets, Scots, wha bae wi' Wallace bled, 381 293 380 277 351 163 108 404 She 342 395 291 76 lad, 97 237 296 44 She is a winsome wee thing, She's fair and fause that causes my smart, Should auld acquaintance be forgot, Sing on sweet thrush, upon thy leafless bough, Sleep'st thou, or wak'st thou fairest creature; Stay, my charmer, can you leave me? Page. 14 332 123 383 373 181 329 272 207 .218 294 The day returns, my bosom burns, 289 The friend whom wild from wisdom's way, 389 The bunter lo'es the morning sun .. 24 The lazy mist hangs from the brow of the bill, Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon, There's auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen, 228 There was once a day, but old Time was then young, 354 They snool me sair, and haud me down, |