Poet Robert Burns

Robert Burns

Robert Burns Poems

  • 401.  
    WITH secret throes I marked that earth,
    That cottage, witness of my birth; And near I saw, bold issuing forth
  • 402.  
    A' THE lads o' Thorniebank,
    When they gae to the shore o' Bucky, They'll step in an' tak a pint
  • 403.  
    Inscribed to Robert Aiken, Esq.
    Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
  • 404.  
    SHREWD Willie Smellie to Crochallan came;
    The old cock'd hat, the grey surtout the same; His bristling beard just rising in its might,
  • 405.  
    SWEET are the banksâ??the banks o' Doon,
    The spreading flowers are fair, And everything is blythe and glad,
  • 406.  
    In Tarbolton, ye ken, there are proper young men,
    And proper young lasses and a', man; But ken ye the Ronalds that live in the Bennals,
  • 407.  
    NAE heathen name shall I prefix,
    Frae Pindus or Parnassus; Auld Reekie dings them a' to sticks,
  • 408.  
    Behind yon hills, where Lugar flows,
    'Mang moors an' mosses many, O, The wintry sun the day has clos'd,
  • 409.  
    THE SIMPLE Bard, rough at the rustic plough,
    Learning his tuneful trade from ev'ry bough; The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush,
  • 410.  
    WHEN first I came to Stewart Kyle,
    My mind it was na steady; Where'er I gaed, where'er I rade,
  • 411.  
    Now simmer blinks on flow'ry braes,
    And o'er the crystal streamlet plays, Come, let us spend the lightsome days
  • 412.  
    CLARINDA, mistres of my soul,
    The measur'd time is run! The wretch beneath the dreary pole
  • 413.  
    BY Allan stream I chanc'd to rove,
    While Phoebus sank beyond Benledi; The winds are whispering thro' the grove,
  • 414.  
    WHOSE 1 is that noble, dauntless brow?
    And whose that eye of fire? And whose that generous princely mien,
  • 415.  
    HAS auld Kilmarnock seen the deil?
    Or great Mackinlay 1 thrawn his heel? Or Robertson 2 again grown weel,
  • 416.  
    Ye flowery banks o' bonnie Doon,
    How can ye blume sae fair? How can ye chant, ye little birds,
  • 417.  
    HERE lies John Bushbyâ??honest man,
    Cheat him, Devilâ??if you can!
  • 418.  
    STREAMS that glide in orient plains,
    Never bound by Winter's chains; Glowing here on golden sands,
  • 419.  
    A Tale
    'Twas in that place o' Scotland's isle,
  • 420.  
    THE FRIEND whom, wild from Wisdom's way,
    The fumes of wine infuriate send, (Not moony madness more astray)
  • 421.  
    Now simmer blinks on flow'ry braes,
    And o'er the crystal streamlet plays, Come, let us spend the lightsome days
  • 422.  
    HER flowing locks, the raven's wing,
    Adown her neck and bosom hing; How sweet unto that breast to cling,
  • 423.  
    WHOE'ER thou art, O reader, know
    That Death has murder'd Johnie; An' here his body lies fu' low;
  • 424.  
    LORD, we thank, and thee adore,
    For temporal gifts we little merit; At present we will ask no moreâ??
  • 425.  
    WHEN wild war's deadly blast was blawn,
    And gentle peace returning, Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless,
  • 426.  
    Go fetch to me a pint o wine,
    And fill it in a silver tassie; That I may drink, before I go,
  • 427.  
    HERE'S a health to them that's awa,
    Here's a health to them that's awa; And wha winna wish gude luck to our cause,
  • 428.  
    Upon that night, when fairies light
    On Cassilis Downans dance, Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze,
  • 429.  
    AULD comrade dear, and brither sinner,
    How's a' the folk about Glenconner? How do you this blae eastlin wind,
  • 430.  
    HERE lies, now a prey to insulting neglect,
    What once was a butterfly, gay in life's beam: Want only of wisdom denied her respect,
  • 431.  
    HOW cruel are the parents
    Who riches only prize, And to the wealthy booby
  • 432.  
    1 Upon a simmer Sunday morn,
    2 When Nature's face is fair, 3 I walked forth to view the corn
  • 433.  
    THE WINTER it is past, and the summer comes at last
    And the small birds, they sing on ev'ry tree; Now ev'ry thing is glad, while I am very sad,
  • 434.  
    WHILE briers an' woodbines budding green,
    An' paitricks scraichin loud at e'en, An' morning poussie whiddin seen,
  • 435.  
    O LEAVE novels, 1 ye Mauchline belles,
    Ye're safer at your spinning-wheel; Such witching books are baited hooks
  • 436.  
    GANE is the day, and mirk's the night,
    But we'll ne'er stray for faut o' light; Gude ale and bratdy's stars and moon,
  • 437.  
    FAIR maid, you need not take the hint,
    Nor idle texts pursue: 'Twas guilty sinners that he meant,
  • 438.  
    SOME books are lies frae end to end,
    And some great lies were never penn'd: Ev'n ministers they hae been kenn'd,
  • 439.  
    The Author's Only Pet Yowe
    An Unco Mournfu' Tale
  • 440.  
    YE flowery banks o' bonnie Doon,
       How can ye blume sae fair! How can ye chant, ye little birds,
  • 441.  
    The Author's Only Pet Yowe
    An Unco Mournfu' Tale
  • 442.  
    Is there for honest poverty
    That hangs his head, an' a' that? The coward slave, we pass him by
  • 443.  
    YE sons of old Killie, assembled by Willie,
    To follow the noble vocation; Your thrifty old mother has scarce such another
  • 444.  
    Chorusâ??O gude ale comes and gude ale goes;
    Gude ale gars me sell my hose, Sell my hose, and pawn my shoonâ??
  • 445.  
    YESTREEN I had a pint o' wine,
    A place where body saw na; Yestreen lay on this breast o' mine
  • 446.  
    LONE on the bleaky hills the straying flocks
    Shun the fierce storms among the sheltering rocks; Down from the rivulets, red with dashing rains,
  • 447.  
    AE day, as Death, that gruesome carl,
    Was driving to the tither warl' A mixtie-maxtie motley squad,
  • 448.  
    THOU, Liberty, thou art my theme;
    Not such as idle poets dream, Who trick thee up a heathen goddess
  • 449.  
    Chorus.â??Jamie, come try me,
    Jamie, come try me, If thou would win my love,
  • 450.  
    FAREWELL to the Highlands, farewell to the North,
    The birth-place of Valour, the country of Worth; Wherever I wander, wherever I rove,
Total 505 poems written by Robert Burns

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The Dome Of Sunday
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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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