Whin ye find ye can bate the ither out of sight ye fall back and let her doot.
"The Launch Boys' Adventures in Northern Waters" by Edward S. Ellis
There's so many bright spots whin one looks hard fer them.
"Nancy McVeigh of the Monk Road" by R. Henry Mainer
So whin dat li'l black Mose go' outen de shanty at night, he keep he eyes wide open, you may be shore.
"The Boy Scouts Book of Campfire Stories" by Various
Riding to the Duke with a message from the Prince I chanced on a man lying face down among the whin bushes.
"A Daughter of Raasay" by William MacLeod Raine
But whin I got downstairs investigatin', the gang was no more'n a loose shutter flappin' in the wind.
"Where the Souls of Men are Calling" by Credo Harris
So whin dat li'l' black Mose go' outen de shanty at night, he keep' he eyes wide open, you may be shore.
"Humorous Ghost Stories" by Dorothy Scarborough
An' I seldom miss whin I shoot.
"'Firebrand' Trevison" by Charles Alden Seltzer
Whin me poorse's impty, he'll not bother his head about me!
"McClure's Magazine, Vol 31, No 2, June 1908" by Various
Whin he first kem it wasn't so plain, but now it seems to me he's the very spit o' Pat Dillon.
"The Art of Disappearing" by John Talbot Smith
It was gay, too, with patches of yellow buttercups, of primroses, and golden whins.
"The Irish Twins" by Lucy Fitch Perkins
The bare hedge bright with rain-drops
That have not fallen down,
The golden-crowded whin-bush
Nor know these things my own!
"Before The Fair" by Padraic Colum
Far in the Monklan' muirs langsyne,
Amang the whins an' heather,
There leev'd an honest, godly man—
A husband an' a faither.
"Ballad of The Monkland Cottar" by Janet Hamilton
An' the sun on the rocks behind me,
Bright on the gorse an' whin,
An' the sun on the slantin' dories
With their white sails tackin' in.
"Low Tide" by Clinton Scollard
O, bairnies, bairnies, the love o' gowd
Turns into an awfu' sin,
For the heart grows hard, an' lies dead in the breast,
Like the bouk o' my nieve o' whin.
"The Deil's Stane" by Alexander Anderson
By mere men's hands the flame was lit, we know,
From heaps of dry waste whin and casual brands:
Yet, knowing, we scarce believe it kindled so
By mere men's hands.
"In Guernsey - To Theodore Watts" by Algernon Charles Swinburne
Or fragrant whar, at opening day,
The whins bloom sweet on Aichil brae;
There, whan inspir'd by lofty lay,
He'd tak his flight;
And towering climb, wi' spirits gay,
"The Links O' Forth : Or, A Parting Peep At The Carse O' Sterling" by Hector MacNeill