Poet Robert Burns

Robert Burns

Robert Burns Poems

  • 251.  
    OH, open the door, some pity to shew,
    Oh, open the door to me, oh, Tho' thou hast been false, I'll ever prove true,
  • 252.  
    WHILE larks, with little wing,
    Fann'd the pure air, Tasting the breathing Spring,
  • 253.  
    Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled,
    Scots, wham Bruce has aften led, Welcome to your gory bed,
  • 254.  
    THOU greybeard, old Wisdom! may boast of thy treasures;
    Give me with young Folly to live; I grant thee thy calm-blooded, time-settled pleasures,
  • 255.  
    ALTHO' my back be at the wa',
    And tho' he be the fautor; Altho' my back be at the wa',
  • 256.  
    I AM a keeper of the law
    In some sma' points, altho' not a'; Some people tell me gin I fa',
  • 257.  
    All devil as I am-a damned wretch,
    A hardened, stubborn, unrepenting villain, Still my heart melts at human wretchedness;
  • 258.  
    When Januar' wind was blawing cauld,
    As to the north I took my way, The mirksome night did me enfauld,
  • 259.  
    O WHA will to Saint Stephen's House,
    To do our errands there, man? O wha will to Saint Stephen's House
  • 260.  
    HERE Brewer Gabriel's fire's extinct,
    And empty all his barrels: He's blestâ??if, as he brew'd, he drink,
  • 261.  
    "O cam ye here the fight to shun,
    Or herd the sheep wi' me, man? Or were ye at the Sherra-moor,
  • 262.  
    BY all I lov'd, neglected and forgot,
    No friendly face e'er lights my squalid cot; Shunn'd, hated, wrong'd, unpitied, unredrest,
  • 263.  
    Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
    Great chieftain o' the puddin-race! Aboon them a' ye tak your place,
  • 264.  
    My mither sent me tae the moss
    For to gaither peats and dross. I cowpit the cairt and hanged the horse
  • 265.  
    ADMIRING Nature in her wildest grace,
    These northern scenes with weary feet I trace; O'er many a winding dale and painful steep,
  • 266.  
    ALL hail! inexorable lord!
    At whose destruction-breathing word, The mightiest empires fall!
  • 267.  
    1 Is there, for honest poverty,
    2 That hings his head, an' a' that? 3 The coward slave, we pass him by,
  • 268.  
    INSTEAD of a Song, boy's, I'll give you a Toast;
    Here's to the memory of those on the twelfth that we lost!â?? That we lost, did I say?â??nay, by Heav'n, that we found;
  • 269.  
    AS down the burn they took their way,
    And thro' the flowery dale; His cheek to hers he aft did lay,
  • 270.  
    Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong,
    The wretch's destinie! M'Pherson's time will not be long
  • 271.  
    SWEET naïveté of feature,
    Simple, wild, enchanting elf, Not to thee, but thanks to Nature,
  • 272.  
    AS father Adam first was fool'd,
    (A case that's still too common,) Here lies man a woman ruled,
  • 273.  
    It was a' for our rightfu' king
    That we left fair Scotland's strand; It was a' for our rightfu' king
  • 274.  
    NOW westlin winds and slaught'ring guns
    Bring Autumn's pleasant weather; The moorcock springs on whirring wings
  • 275.  
    FAREWEEL to a' our Scottish fame,
    Fareweel our ancient glory; Fareweel ev'n to the Scottish name,
  • 276.  
    1 Ca' the yowes to the knowes,
    2 Ca' them where the heather grows 3 Ca' them where the burnie rows,
  • 277.  
    Chorus.â??You're welcome, Willie Stewart,
    You're welcome, Willie Stewart, There's ne'er a flower that blooms in May,
  • 278.  
    YE Irish lords, ye knights an' squires,
    Wha represent our brughs an' shires, An' doucely manage our affairs
  • 279.  
    RIGHT, sir! your text I'll prove it true,
    Tho' heretics may laugh; For instance, there's yourself just now,
  • 280.  
    THINE am I, my faithful Fair,
    Thine, my lovely Nancy; Ev'ry pulse along my veins,
  • 281.  
    WHEN, by a generous Public's kind acclaim,
    That dearest meed is grantedâ??honest fame; Waen here your favour is the actor's lot,
  • 282.  
    On Cessnock banks a lassie dwells,
    Could I describe her shape and mien! Our lasses a' she far excels---
  • 283.  
    ITHERS seek they ken na what,
    Features, carriage, and a' that; Gie me love in her I court,
  • 284.  
    1 It was a' for our rightful king
    2 That we left fair Scotland's strand; 3 It was a' for our rightful king
  • 285.  
    WITH Pegasus upon a day,
    Apollo, weary flying, Through frosty hills the journey lay,
  • 286.  
    STILL anxious to secure your partial favour,
    And not less anxious, sure, this night, than ever, A Prologue, Epilogue, or some such matter,
  • 287.  
    Wee Willie Gray, and his leather wallet,
    Peel a willow wand to be him boots and jacket; The rose upon the breir will be him trews anâ?? doublet,
  • 288.  
    Talk not of love, it gives me pain,
    For love has been my foe; He bound me in an iron chain,
  • 289.  
    FRIEND of the Poet, tried and leal,
    Wha, wanting thee, might beg or steal; Alake, alake, the meikle deil
  • 290.  
    HERE cursing, swearing Burton lies,
    A buck, a beau, or "Dem my eyes!" Who in his life did little good,
  • 291.  
    O HAD each Scot of ancient times
    Been, Jeanie Scott, as thou art; The bravest heart on English ground
  • 292.  
    ELLISLAND, 21st Oct., 1789.WOW, but your letter made me vauntie!
    And are ye hale, and weel and cantie? I ken'd it still, your wee bit jauntie
  • 293.  
    MY Sandy gied to me a ring,
    Was a' beset wi' diamonds fine; But I gied him a far better thing,
  • 294.  
    THERE was five Carlins in the South,
    They fell upon a scheme, To send a lad to London town,
  • 295.  
    LAMENT him, Mauchline husbands a',
    He aften did assist ye; For had ye staid hale weeks awa,
  • 296.  
    TO you, sir, this summons I've sent,
    Pray, whip till the pownie is freathing; But if you demand what I want,
  • 297.  
    O MIRK, mirk is this midnight hour,
    And loud the tempest's roar; A waefu' wanderer seeks thy tower,
  • 298.  
    AMONG the heathy hills and ragged woods
    The roaring Fyers pours his mossy floods; Till full he dashes on the rocky mounds,
  • 299.  
    O DEATH! thou tyrant fell and bloody!
    The meikle devil wi' a woodie Haurl thee hame to his black smiddie,
  • 300.  
    Amang the trees, where humming bees,
    At buds and flowers were hinging, O, Auld Caledon drew out her drone,
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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