A Fragment.

Tune - "John Anderson my jo."


    One night as I did wander,
        When corn begins to shoot,
    I sat me down to ponder,
        Upon an auld tree root:
    Auld Ayr ran by before me,
        And bicker'd to the seas;
    A cushat crooded o'er me,
        That echoed thro' the braes.

Robert Burns

Robert Burns, also known as Rabbie Burns, the Bard of Ayrshire, and various other names and epithets, was a Scottish poet and lyricist. He is widely regarded as the national poet of Scotland and is celebrated worldwide. Born on January 25, 1759, in Alloway, he is best known for works such as 'Auld Lang Syne,' 'Scots Wha Hae,' and 'A Red, Red Rose.' He passed away on July 21, 1796, in Dumfries.

Robert Burns

My Love She's But A Lassie Yet.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

The Book-Worms.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Wandering Willie. (Last Version.)

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Jockey's Ta'En The Parting Kiss.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

John Anderson.

Tune - "John Anderson, my jo."


I.

    "John Anderson, my jo, John,
        When we were first acquent,
    Your locks were like the raven,
        Your bonnie brow was brent;
    But now your brow is beld, John,
        Your locks are like the snaw;
    But blessings on your frosty pow,
        John Anderson, my jo.

II.

    John Anderson, my jo, John,
        We clamb the hill thegither;
    And mony a canty day, John,
        We've had wi' ane anither:
    Now we maun totter down, John,
        But hand in hand we'll go;
    And sleep thegither at the foot,
        John Anderson, my jo.

Robert Burns

Amang The Trees.

Tune - "The King of France, he rade a race."



I.

    Amang the trees, where humming bees
        At buds and flowers were hinging, O,
    Auld Caledon drew out her drone,
        And to her pipe was singing, O;
    'Twas pibroch, sang, strathspey, or reels,
        She dirl'd them aff fu' clearly, O,
    When there cam a yell o' foreign squeels,
        That dang her tapsalteerie, O.

II.

    Their capon craws and queer ha ha's,
        They made our lugs grow eerie, O;
    The hungry bike did scrape and pike,
        'Till we were wae and weary, O;
    But a royal ghaist wha ance was cas'd
        A prisoner aughteen year awa,
    He fir'd a fiddler in the north
        That dang them tapsalteerie, O.

Robert Burns

The Gloomy Night.

Tune - "Roslin Castle."


I.

    The gloomy night is gath'ring fast,
    Loud roars the wild inconstant blast;
    Yon murky cloud is foul with rain,
    I see it driving o'er the plain;
    The hunter now has left the moor,
    The scatter'd coveys meet secure;
    While here I wander, prest with care,
    Along the lonely banks of Ayr.

II.

    The Autumn mourns her rip'ning corn,
    By early Winter's ravage torn;
    Across her placid, azure sky,
    She sees the scowling tempest fly:
    Chill runs my blood to hear it rave,
    I think upon the stormy wave,
    Where many a danger I must dare,
    Far from the bonnie banks of Ayr.

III.

    'Tis not the surging billow's roar,
    'Tis n...

Robert Burns

Musing On The Roaring Ocean.

Tune - "Druimion dubh."


I.

    Musing on the roaring ocean,
        Which divides my love and me;
    Wearying heaven in warm devotion,
        For his weal where'er he be.

II.

    Hope and fear's alternate billow
        Yielding late to nature's law,
    Whisp'ring spirits round my pillow
        Talk of him that's far awa.

III.

    Ye whom sorrow never wounded,
        Ye who never shed a tear,
    Care-untroubled, joy-surrounded,
        Gaudy day to you is dear.

IV.

    Gentle night, do thou befriend me;
        Downy sleep, the curtain draw;
    Spirits kind, again attend me,
        Talk of him that's far awa!

Robert Burns

The Tither Moon.

To a Highland Air.


I.

                The tither morn,
                When I forlorn,
    Aneath an oak sat moaning,
                I did na trow
                I'd see my Jo,
    Beside me, gain the gloaming.
                But he sae trig,
                Lap o'er the rig.
    And dawtingly did cheer me,
                When I, what reck,
                Did least expec',
    To see my lad so near me.

II.

                His bonnet he,
                A thought ajee,
    Cock'd sprush when first he clasp'd me;
                And I, I wat,
                Wi' fainness grat,
    While in his grips be press'd me.
                Deil tak' the war!
                I late and air
    Hae...

Robert Burns

Craigie-Burn Wood.

I.

    Sweet fa's the eve on Craigie-burn,
        And blithe awakes the morrow;
    But a' the pride o' spring's return
        Can yield me nocht but sorrow.

II.

    I see the flowers and spreading trees
        I hear the wild birds singing;
    But what a weary wight can please,
        And care his bosom wringing?

III.

    Fain, fain would I my griefs impart,
        Yet dare na for your anger;
    But secret love will break my heart,
        If I conceal it langer.

IV.

    If thou refuse to pity me,
        If thou shall love anither,
    When yon green leaves fade frae the tree,
        Around my grave they'll wither.

Robert Burns