Poet Robert Burns

Robert Burns

Robert Burns Poems

  • 351.  
    WHARE live ye, my bonie lass?
    And tell me what they ca' ye; My name, she says, is mistress Jean,
  • 352.  
    THE KING'S most humble servant, I
    Can scarcely spare a minute; But I'll be wi' you by an' by;
  • 353.  
    MUSING on the roaring ocean,
    Which divides my love and me; Wearying heav'n in warm devotion,
  • 354.  
    I dream'd I lay where flowers were springing
    Gaily in the sunny beam; List'ning to the wild birds singing,
  • 355.  
    "O cam ye here the fight to shun,
    Or herd the sheep wi' me, man? Or were ye at the Sherra-moor,
  • 356.  
    There's nane that's blest of human kind,
    But the cheerful and the gay, man, Fal, la, la, &c.
  • 357.  
    DEAR Myra, the captive ribband's mine,
    'Twas all my faithful love could gain; And would you ask me to resign
  • 358.  
    THERE was a bonie lass, and a bonie, bonie lass,
    And she lo'ed her bonie laddie dear; Till War's loud alarms tore her laddie frae her arms,
  • 359.  
    FROM thee, Eliza, I must go,
    And from my native shore; The cruel fates between us throw
  • 360.  
    HERE awa, there awa, wandering Willie,
    Here awa, there awa, haud awa hame; Come to my bosom, my ain only dearie,
  • 361.  
    THOUGH fickle Fortune has deceived me,
    She pormis'd fair and perform'd but ill; Of mistress, friends, and wealth bereav'd me,
  • 362.  
    THOU whom chance may hither lead,
    Be thou clad in russet weed, Be thou deckt in silken stole,
  • 363.  
    HERE lies Boghead amang the dead
    In hopes to get salvation; But if such as he in Heav'n may be,
  • 364.  
    O LADY Mary Ann looks o'er the Castle wa',
    She saw three bonie boys playing at the ba', The youngest he was the flower amang them a',
  • 365.  
    Now Nature hangs her mantle green
    On every blooming tree, And spreads her sheets o' daises white
  • 366.  
    THERE was a wife wonn'd in Cockpen,
    Scroggam; She brew'd gude ale for gentlemen;
  • 367.  
    LET other heroes boast their scars,
    The marks of sturt and strife: And other poets sing of wars,
  • 368.  
    Willie Wastle dwalt on Tweed,
    The spot they ca'd it Linkumdoddie. Willie was a wabster guid
  • 369.  
    EARTH'D up, here lies an imp o' hell,
    Planted by Satan's dibble; Poor silly wretch, he's damned himsel',
  • 370.  
    IN se'enteen hunder'n forty-nine,
    The deil gat stuff to mak a swine, An' coost it in a corner;
  • 371.  
    HONEST 1 Will to Heaven's away
    And mony shall lament him; His fau'ts they a' in Latin lay,
  • 372.  
    O MAY, thy morn was ne'er so sweet
    As the mirk night o' December! For sparkling was the rosy wine,
  • 373.  
    A Guide New-year I wish thee, Maggie!
    Hae, there's a ripp to thy auld baggie: Tho' thou's howe-backit now, an' knaggie,
  • 374.  
    My love, she's but a lassie yet,
    My love, she's but a lassie yet! We'll let her stand a year or twa,
  • 375.  
    I MURDER hate by flood or field,
    Tho' glory's name may screen us; In wars at home I'll spend my bloodâ??
  • 376.  
    O MARY, at thy window be,
    It is the wish'd, the trysted hour! Those smiles and glances let me see,
  • 377.  
    HEE balou, my sweet wee Donald,
    Picture o' the great Clanronald; Brawlie kens our wanton Chief
  • 378.  
    THE SUN had clos'd the winter day,
    The curless quat their roarin play, And hunger'd maukin taen her way,
  • 379.  
    Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon,
    How can ye bloom sae fair! How can ye chant, ye little birds,
  • 380.  
    Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon,
    How can ye bloom sae fair! How can ye chant, ye little birds,
  • 381.  
    Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon,
    How can ye bloom sae fair! How can ye chant, ye little birds,
  • 382.  
    Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon,
    How can ye bloom sae fair! How can ye chant, ye little birds,
  • 383.  
    Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon,
    How can ye bloom sae fair! How can ye chant, ye little birds,
  • 384.  
    Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon,
    How can ye bloom sae fair! How can ye chant, ye little birds,
  • 385.  
    HE who of Rankine sang, lies stiff and dead,
    And a green grassy hillock hides his head; Alas! alas! a devilish change indeed.
  • 386.  
    WHILE winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw,
    An' bar the doors wi' driving snaw, An' hing us owre the ingle,
  • 387.  
    NOW, Kennedy, if foot or horse
    E'er bring you in by Mauchlin corse, (Lord, man, there's lasses there wad force
  • 388.  
    On a bank of flowers in a summer day
    For summer lightly drest, The youthful, blooming Nelly lay,
  • 389.  
    AN HONEST man here lies at rest
    As e'er God with his image blest; The friend of man, the friend of truth,
  • 390.  
    BUT lately seen in gladsome green,
    The woods rejoic'd the day, Thro' gentle showers, the laughing flowers
  • 391.  
    A fond kiss, and then we sever;
    A farewell, and then forever! Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee,
  • 392.  
    STOP, passenger! my story's brief,
    And truth I shall relate, man; I tell nae common tale o' grief,
  • 393.  
    BLESS Jesus Christ, O Cardonessp,
    With grateful, lifted eyes, Who taught that not the soul alone,
  • 394.  
    Wae is my heart, and the tear's in my e'e;
    Lang lang Joy's been a stranger to me: Forsaken and friendless, my burden I bear,
  • 395.  
    FAREWELL, ye dungeons dark and strong,
    The wretch's destinie! M'Pherson's time will not be long
  • 396.  
    It was upon a Lammas night,
    When corn rigs are bonnie, Beneath the moon's unclouded light,
  • 397.  
    ONE Queen Artemisia, as old stories tell,
    When deprived of her husband she loved so well, In respect for the love and affection he show'd her,
  • 398.  
    WHERE Cart rins rowin' to the sea,
    By mony a flower and spreading tree, There lives a lad, the lad for me,
  • 399.  
    Tune - "Laggan Burn."
    Here's to thy health, my bonie lass,
  • 400.  
    My curse upon your venom'd stang,
    That shoots my tortur'd gums alang; And thro' my lugs gies mony a twang,
Total 505 poems written by Robert Burns

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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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