Poet Robert Burns

Robert Burns

Robert Burns Poems

  • 451.  
    THE BLUDE-RED rose at Yule may blaw,
    The simmer lilies bloom in snaw, The frost may freeze the deepest sea;
  • 452.  
    LATE crippl'd of an arm, and now a leg,
    About to beg a pass for leave to beg; Dull, listless, teas'd, dejected, and deprest
  • 453.  
    GUDEWIFE,I MIND it weel in early date,
    When I was bardless, young, and blate, An' first could thresh the barn,
  • 454.  
    Sleep'st thou, or wakâ??st thou, fairest creature?
    Rosy morn now lifts his eye, Numbering ilka bud which Nature
  • 455.  
    THERE 1 was a lad was born in Kyle,
    But whatna day o' whatna style, I doubt it's hardly worth the while
  • 456.  
    Yestreen I had a pint o' wine,
    A place where body saw na; Yestreen lay on this breast o' mine
  • 457.  
    O WERE my love yon Lilac fair,
    Wi' purple blossoms to the Spring, And I, a bird to shelter there,
  • 458.  
    WHAT can a young lassie, what shall a young lassie,
    What can a young lassie do wi' an auld man? Bad luck on the penny that tempted my minnie
  • 459.  
    I HOLD it, sir, my bounden duty
    To warn you how that Master Tootie, Alias, Laird M'Gaun,
  • 460.  
    THERE lived a carl in Kellyburn Braes,
    Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme; And he had a wife was the plague of his days,
  • 461.  
    WHY am I loth to leave this earthly scene?
    Have I so found it full of pleasing charms? Some drops of joy with draughts of ill betweenâ??
  • 462.  
    Chorusâ??Long, long the night,
    Heavy comes the morrow While my soul's delight
  • 463.  
    DEAR â??â??â??, I'll gie ye some advice,
    You'll tak it no uncivil: You shouldna paint at angels mair,
  • 464.  
    ANCE mair I hail thee, thou gloomy December!
    Ance mair I hail thee wi' sorrow and care; Sad was the parting thou makes me rememberâ??
  • 465.  
    THE HEATHER was blooming, the meadows were mawn,
    Our lads gaed a-hunting ae day at the dawn, O'er moors and o'er mosses and mony a glen,
  • 466.  
    HUMID seal of soft affections,
    Tenderest pledge of future bliss, Dearest tie of young connections,
  • 467.  
    THOU flatt'ring mark of friendship kind,
    Still may thy pages call to mind The dear, the beauteous donor;
  • 468.  
    NO more, ye warblers of the wood! no more;
    Nor pour your descant grating on my soul; Thou young-eyed Spring! gay in thy verdant stole,
  • 469.  
    Scots, wha hae wi Wallace bled,
    Scots, wham Bruce has aften led, Welcome to your gory bed
  • 470.  
    THAT there is a falsehood in his looks,
    I must and will deny: They tell their Master is a knave,
  • 471.  
    A Song of Similes
    Tune - 'If he be a Butcher neat and trim.'
  • 472.  
    HOW pleasant the banks of the clear winding Devon,
    With green spreading bushes and flow'rs blooming fair! But the boniest flow'r on the banks of the Devon
  • 473.  
    EXPECT na, sir, in this narration,
    A fleechin, fleth'rin Dedication, To roose you up, an' ca' you guid,
  • 474.  
    YE gallants bright, I rede you right,
    Beware o' bonie Ann; Her comely face sae fu' o' grace,
  • 475.  
    As I was a-wand'ring ae morning in spring,
    I heard a young ploughman sae sweetly to sing; And as he was singin', thir words he did say, -
  • 476.  
    NO more of your guests, be they titled or not,
    And cookery the first in the nation; Who is proof to thy personal converse and wit,
  • 477.  
    I am nae poet, in a sense,
    But just a rhymer like by chance, An' hae to learning nae pretence;
  • 478.  
    O Thou Great Being! what Thou art,
    Surpasses me to know; Yet sure I am, that known to Thee
  • 479.  
    O HOW shall I, unskilfu', try
    The poet's occupation? The tunefu' powers, in happy hours,
  • 480.  
    I'M now arrivedâ??thanks to the gods!â??
    Thro' pathways rough and muddy, A certain sign that makin roads
  • 481.  
    1 Ae fond kiss, and then we sever;
    2 Ae fareweel, and then forever! 3 Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee,
  • 482.  
    A' YE wha live by sowps o' drink,
    A' ye wha live by crambo-clink, A' ye wha live and never think,
  • 483.  
    LET not Woman e'er complain
    Of inconstancy in love; Let not Woman e'er complain
  • 484.  
    Tune - "Galla Water."
    Altho' my bed were in yon muir,
  • 485.  
    CEASE, ye prudes, your envious railing,
    Lovely Burns has charmsâ??confess: True it is, she had one failing,
  • 486.  
    HEY, the dusty Miller,
    And his dusty coat, He will win a shilling,
  • 487.  
    MY 1 heart is wae, and unco wae,
    To think upon the raging sea, That roars between her gardens green
  • 488.  
    TRUE hearted was he, the sad swain o' the Yarrow,
    And fair are the maids on the banks of the Ayr; But by the sweet side o' the Nith's winding river,
  • 489.  
    I GAT your letter, winsome Willie;
    Wi' gratefu' heart I thank you brawlie; Tho' I maun say't, I wad be silly,
  • 490.  
    ASK why God made the gem so small?
    And why so huge the granite?â?? Because God meant mankind should set
  • 491.  
    YOUR News and Review, sir.
    I've read through and through, sir, With little admiring or blaming;
  • 492.  
    The gloomy night is gath'ring fast,
    Loud roars the wild inconstant blast; Yon murky cloud is filled with rain,
  • 493.  
    OF Lordly acquaintance you boast,
    And the Dukes that you dined wi' yestreen, Yet an insect's an insect at most,
  • 494.  
    THOU, Nature, partial Nature, I arraign;
    Of thy caprice maternal I complain. The peopled fold thy kindly care have found,
  • 495.  
    "O CAM ye here the fight to shun,
    Or herd the sheep wi' me, man? Or were ye at the Sherra-moor,
  • 496.  
    HOW can my poor heart be glad,
    When absent from my sailor lad; How can I the thought foregoâ??
  • 497.  
    YE true "Loyal Natives" attend to my song
    In uproar and riot rejoice the night long; From Envy and Hatred your corps is exempt,
  • 498.  
    WHILE new-ca'd kye rowte at the stake
    An' pownies reek in pleugh or braik, This hour on e'enin's edge I take,
  • 499.  
    Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North,
    The birth-place of Valour, the country of Worth; Wherever I wander, wherever I rove,
  • 500.  
    WHY, why tell thy lover
    Bliss he never must enjoy"? Why, why undeceive him,
Total 505 poems written by Robert Burns

Poem of the day

The Dome Of Sunday
 by Karl Shapiro

With focus sharp as Flemish-painted face
In film of varnish brightly fixed
And through a polished hand-lens deeply seen,
Sunday at noon through hyaline thin air
Sees down the street,
And in the camera of my eye depicts
Row-houses and row-lives:
Glass after glass, door after door the same,

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