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

Poem of the day

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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