Robert Burns Poems

  • 851.  
    nd wigs!
    Sour Bigotry, on her last legs,Girns an' looks back,
  • 852.  
    Chorus.â??O WHISTLE, an' I'll come to ye, my lad,
    O whistle, an' I'll come to ye, my lad,Tho' father an' mother an' a' should gae mad,
  • 853.  
    O, once I lov'd a bonnie lass,
    Aye, and I love her still;And whilst that virtue warms my breast
  • 854.  
    alarm to your conscience:
    A heretic blast has been blown in the West,That what is no sense must be nonsense,
  • 855.  
    BLEST be M'Murdo to his latest day!
    No envious cloud o'ercast his evening ray;No wrinkle, furrow'd by the hand of care,
  • 856.  
    BEHOLD, my love, how green the groves,
    The primrose banks how fair;The balmy gales awake the flowers,
  • 857.  
    At a relic aul' croft upon the hill,
    Roon the neuk frae Sprottie's mill,Tryin' a' his life tae jine the kill
  • 858.  
    Thou lingering star, with less'ning ray,
    That lov'st to greet the early morn,Again thou usherast in the day
  • 859.  
    John Anderson my jo, John,
    When we were first acquent,Your locks were like the raven,
  • 860.  
    Chorus.â??I'm o'er young, I'm o'er young,
    I'm o'er young to marry yet;I'm o'er young, 'twad be a sin
  • 861.  
    THOU of an independent mind,
    With soul resolv'd, with soul resign'd;Prepar'd Power's proudest frown to brave,
  • 862.  
    spreads her sheets o' daisies white
    Out o'er the grassy lea;Now Phoebus cheers the crystal streams,
  • 863.  
    beneath the western wave;
    Th' inconstant blast howl'd thro' the dark'ning air,And hollow whistled in the rocky cave.
  • 864.  
    RASH 1 mortal, and slanderous poet, thy name
    Shall no longer appear in the records of Fame;Dost not know that old Mansfield, who writes like the Bible,
  • 865.  
    Lament in rhyme, lament in prose,
    Wi' saut tears tricklin down your nose; Our bardie's fate is at a close,
  • 866.  
    When a' our fairest maids were met,The fairest maid was bonie Jean.
  • 867.  
    'd Highland boors;
    Lord grant me nae duddie, desperate beggar,Wi' dirk, claymore, and rusty trigger,
  • 868.  
    Tune - "Go from my window, Love, do."

  • 869.  
    It was upon a Lammas night,
    When corn rigs are bonnie,Beneath the moon's unclouded light,
  • 870.  
    SIR,Yours this moment I unseal,
    And faith I'm gay and hearty!To tell the truth and shame the deil,
  • 871.  
    The winter it is past, and the summer comes at last
    And the small birds, they sing on evâ??ry tree; Now evâ??ry thing is glad, while I am very sad,
  • 872.  
    h sad Repentance dwells;
    Where turnkeys make the jealous portal fast,And deal from iron hands the spare repast;
  • 873.  
    Or wha in a' the country round
    The best deserves to fa' that?For a' that, and a' that,
  • 874.  
    AS Tam the chapman on a day,
    Wi'Death forgather'd by the way,Weel pleas'd, he greets a wight so famous,
  • 875.  
    There's nane that's blest of human kind
    But the cheerful and the gay, man.
  • 876.  
    OUT over the Forth, I look to the North;
    But what is the north and its Highlands to me?The south nor the east gie ease to my breast,
  • 877.  
    ALTHO' my bed were in yon muir,
    Amang the heather, in my plaidie;Yet happy, happy would I be,
  • 878.  
    FLOW gently, sweet Afton! amang thy green braes,
    Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise;My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,
  • 879.  
    BLYTHE hae I been on yon hill,
    As the lambs before me;Careless ilka thought and free,
  • 880.  
    Chorusâ??Fairest maid on Devon banks,
    Crystal Devon, winding Devon,Wilt thou lay that frown aside,
  • 881.  
    WAE worth thy power, thou cursed leaf!
    Fell source o' a' my woe and grief!For lack o' thee I've lost my lass!
  • 882.  
    O Thou, the first, the greatest friend
    Of all the human race!Whose strong right hand has ever been
  • 883.  
    BEHOLD the hour, the boat, arrive!
    My dearest Nancy, O fareweel!Severed frae thee, can I survive,
  • 884.  
    O thou! whatever title suit thee,-
    Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie!Wha in yon cavern, grim an' sootie,
  • 885.  
    nth's length again:
    I see, the old bald-pated fellow,With ardent eyes, complexion sallow,
  • 886.  
    Chorus:- Bonie wee thing, cannie wee thing,
    Lovely wee thing, wert thou mine, I wad wear thee in my bosom,
  • 887.  
    O Thou dread Power, who reign'st above,
    I know thou wilt me hear, When for this scene of peace and love
  • 888.  
    O MERRY hae I been teethin' a heckle,
    An' merry hae I been shapin' a spoon; O merry hae I been cloutin' a kettle,
  • 889.  
    Chorusâ??Here's a health to ane I loe dear,
    Here's a health to ane I loe dear;Thou art sweet as the smile when fond lovers meet,
  • 890.  
    din' show'r,
    Or in gulravage rinnin scowrTo pass the time,
  • 891.  
    BEHIND yon hills where Lugar flows,
    'Mang moors an' mosses many, O,The wintry sun the day has clos'd,
  • 892.  
    I HAE a wife of my ain,
    I'll partake wi' naebody;I'll take Cuckold frae nane,
  • 893.  
    My Son, these maxims make a rule,
    An' lump them aye thegither; The Rigid Righteous is a fool,
  • 894.  
    Thou's welcome, wean; mishanter fa' me,
    If thoughts o' thee, or yet thy mammie, Shall ever daunton me or awe me,
  • 895.  
    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,
  • 896.  
    Ae night, at tea, began a plea,Within America, man:
  • 897.  
    Fair Empress of the poet's soul,
    And Queen of poetesses; Clarinda, take this little boon,
  • 898.  
    I lang hae thought, my youthfu' friend,
    A something to have sent you, Tho' it should serve nae ither end
  • 899.  
    O on the fourteenth day of February we sailed from the land
    In the bold Princess Royal bound for Newfoundland.We had forty bright sailors for our ship's companie,
  • 900.  
    1 Auld Coila now may fidge fu' fain,
    2 She's gotten poets o' her ain--3 Chiels wha their chanters winna hain,
Total 973 poems written by Robert Burns

Poem of the day

Charles Hamilton Sorley Poem
 by Charles Hamilton Sorley

There where the rusty iron lies,
The rooks are cawing all the day.
Perhaps no man, until he dies,
Will understand them, what they say.

The evening makes the sky like clay.
The slow wind waits for night to rise.
The world is half content. But they

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