God knows, I'm no the thing I should be, Nor am I even the thing I could be.

Suspense is worse than disappointment.

The snowdrop and primrose our woodlands adorn, and violets bathe in the wet o' the morn.

[Scottish songs] are, I own, frequently wild, & unreduceable to the more modern rules; but on that very eccentricity, perhaps, depends a great part of their effect.

Here's to us, who's like us Damn few, and they're all dead.

Their sighing, canting, grace-proud faces, their three-mile prayers, and half-mile graces.

My heart is sair-I dare na tell, My heart is sair for Somebody.