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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A March Day In London
 by Amy Levy

The east wind blows in the street to-day;
The sky is blue, yet the town looks grey.
'Tis the wind of ice, the wind of fire,
Of cold despair and of hot desire,
Which chills the flesh to aches and pains,
And sends a fever through all the veins.

From end to end, with aimless feet,

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