Robert Burns Poems

  • 551.  
    WHOE'ER thou art, O reader, know
    That Death has murder'd Johnie; An' here his body lies fu' low;
  • 552.  
    HER flowing locks, the raven's wing,
    Adown her neck and bosom hing; How sweet unto that breast to cling,
  • 553.  
    Now simmer blinks on flow'ry braes,
    And o'er the crystal streamlet plays, Come, let us spend the lightsome days
  • 554.  
    THE FRIEND whom, wild from Wisdom's way,
    The fumes of wine infuriate send, (Not moony madness more astray)
  • 555.  
    A Tale
    'Twas in that place o' Scotland's isle,
  • 556.  
    STREAMS that glide in orient plains,
    Never bound by Winter's chains; Glowing here on golden sands,
  • 557.  
    HERE lies John Bushbyâ??honest man,
    Cheat him, Devilâ??if you can!
  • 558.  
    Ye flowery banks o' bonnie Doon,
    How can ye blume sae fair? How can ye chant, ye little birds,
  • 559.  
    HAS auld Kilmarnock seen the deil?
    Or great Mackinlay 1 thrawn his heel? Or Robertson 2 again grown weel,
  • 560.  
    WHOSE 1 is that noble, dauntless brow?
    And whose that eye of fire? And whose that generous princely mien,
  • 561.  
    BY Allan stream I chanc'd to rove,
    While Phoebus sank beyond Benledi; The winds are whispering thro' the grove,
  • 562.  
    CLARINDA, mistres of my soul,
    The measur'd time is run! The wretch beneath the dreary pole
  • 563.  
    Now simmer blinks on flow'ry braes,
    And o'er the crystal streamlet plays, Come, let us spend the lightsome days
  • 564.  
    WHEN first I came to Stewart Kyle,
    My mind it was na steady; Where'er I gaed, where'er I rade,
  • 565.  
    THE SIMPLE Bard, rough at the rustic plough,
    Learning his tuneful trade from ev'ry bough; The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush,
  • 566.  
    Behind yon hills, where Lugar flows,
    'Mang moors an' mosses many, O, The wintry sun the day has clos'd,
  • 567.  
    NAE heathen name shall I prefix,
    Frae Pindus or Parnassus; Auld Reekie dings them a' to sticks,
  • 568.  
    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,
  • 569.  
    SWEET are the banksâ??the banks o' Doon,
    The spreading flowers are fair, And everything is blythe and glad,
  • 570.  
    SHREWD Willie Smellie to Crochallan came;
    The old cock'd hat, the grey surtout the same; His bristling beard just rising in its might,
  • 571.  
    Inscribed to Robert Aiken, Esq.
    Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
  • 572.  
    A' THE lads o' Thorniebank,
    When they gae to the shore o' Bucky, They'll step in an' tak a pint
  • 573.  
    WITH secret throes I marked that earth,
    That cottage, witness of my birth; And near I saw, bold issuing forth
  • 574.  
    My curse upon your venom'd stang,
    That shoots my tortur'd gums alang; And thro' my lugs gies mony a twang,
  • 575.  
    Tune - "Laggan Burn."
    Here's to thy health, my bonie lass,
  • 576.  
    WHERE Cart rins rowin' to the sea,
    By mony a flower and spreading tree, There lives a lad, the lad for me,
  • 577.  
    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,
  • 578.  
    It was upon a Lammas night,
    When corn rigs are bonnie, Beneath the moon's unclouded light,
  • 579.  
    FAREWELL, ye dungeons dark and strong,
    The wretch's destinie! M'Pherson's time will not be long
  • 580.  
    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,
  • 581.  
    BLESS Jesus Christ, O Cardonessp,
    With grateful, lifted eyes, Who taught that not the soul alone,
  • 582.  
    STOP, passenger! my story's brief,
    And truth I shall relate, man; I tell nae common tale o' grief,
  • 583.  
    A fond kiss, and then we sever;
    A farewell, and then forever! Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee,
  • 584.  
    BUT lately seen in gladsome green,
    The woods rejoic'd the day, Thro' gentle showers, the laughing flowers
  • 585.  
    AN HONEST man here lies at rest
    As e'er God with his image blest; The friend of man, the friend of truth,
  • 586.  
    On a bank of flowers in a summer day
    For summer lightly drest, The youthful, blooming Nelly lay,
  • 587.  
    NOW, Kennedy, if foot or horse
    E'er bring you in by Mauchlin corse, (Lord, man, there's lasses there wad force
  • 588.  
    WHILE winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw,
    An' bar the doors wi' driving snaw, An' hing us owre the ingle,
  • 589.  
    HE who of Rankine sang, lies stiff and dead,
    And a green grassy hillock hides his head; Alas! alas! a devilish change indeed.
  • 590.  
    Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon,
    How can ye bloom sae fair! How can ye chant, ye little birds,
  • 591.  
    Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon,
    How can ye bloom sae fair! How can ye chant, ye little birds,
  • 592.  
    Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon,
    How can ye bloom sae fair! How can ye chant, ye little birds,
  • 593.  
    Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon,
    How can ye bloom sae fair! How can ye chant, ye little birds,
  • 594.  
    Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon,
    How can ye bloom sae fair! How can ye chant, ye little birds,
  • 595.  
    Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon,
    How can ye bloom sae fair! How can ye chant, ye little birds,
  • 596.  
    THE SUN had clos'd the winter day,
    The curless quat their roarin play, And hunger'd maukin taen her way,
  • 597.  
    HEE balou, my sweet wee Donald,
    Picture o' the great Clanronald; Brawlie kens our wanton Chief
  • 598.  
    O MARY, at thy window be,
    It is the wish'd, the trysted hour! Those smiles and glances let me see,
  • 599.  
    I MURDER hate by flood or field,
    Tho' glory's name may screen us; In wars at home I'll spend my bloodâ??
  • 600.  
    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,
Total 973 poems written by Robert Burns

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I stood among the boats
The sinking sun, the angry sun,
Across the sullen wave
Laid the sudden strength of his red wrath
Like to a shaken glaive:-
Or did the sun pause in the west
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Or was it she, or was it she,
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