A Mother's Lament For The Death Of Her Son.

Fate gave the word, the arrow sped,  
        And pierc'd my darling's heart;  
    And with him all the joys are fled  
        Life can to me impart.  
    By cruel hands the sapling drops,  
        In dust dishonour'd laid:  
    So fell the pride of all my hopes,  
        My age's future shade.

    The mother-linnet in the brake  
        Bewails her ravish'd young;  
    So I, for my lost darling's sake,  
        Lament the live day long.  
    Death, oft I've fear'd thy fatal blow,  
        Now, fond I bare my breast,  
    O, do thou kindly lay me low  
        With him I love, at rest!

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

Coming Through The Rye.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Blooming Nelly.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

On The Recovery Of Jessy Lewars.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

On Robert Riddel.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

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On The Birth Of A Posthumous Child.

    Sweet flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love,
        And ward o' mony a pray'r,
    What heart o' stane wad thou na move,
        Sae helpless, sweet, and fair!

    November hirples o'er the lea,
        Chill on thy lovely form;
    And gane, alas! the shelt'ring tree,
        Should shield thee frae the storm.

    May He who gives the rain to pour,
        And wings the blast to blaw,
    Protect thee frae the driving show'r,
        The bitter frost and snaw!

    May He, the friend of woe and want,
        Who heals life's various stounds,
    Protect and guard the mother-plant,
        And heal her cruel wounds!

    But late she flourish'd, rooted fast,
        Fair on the summer-morn:
    Now feebly bends she in the blast,<...

Robert Burns

Elegy On Miss Burnet, Of Monboddo.

    Life ne'er exulted in so rich a prize
    As Burnet, lovely from her native skies;
    Nor envious death so triumph'd in a blow,
    As that which laid th' accomplish'd Burnet low.

    Thy form and mind, sweet maid, can I forget?
    In richest ore the brightest jewel set!
    In thee, high Heaven above was truest shown,
    As by his noblest work, the Godhead best is known.

    In vain ye flaunt in summer's pride, ye groves;
        Thou crystal streamlet with thy flowery shore,
    Ye woodland choir that chant your idle loves,
        Ye cease to charm, Eliza is no more!

    Ye heathy wastes, immix'd with reedy fens;
        Ye mossy streams, with sedge and rushes stor'd;
    Ye rugged cliffs, o'erhanging dreary glens,
        To you I fly, ...

Robert Burns

Lament, Occasioned By The Unfortunate Issue Of A Friend's Amour.

    "Alas! how oft does goodness wound itself!
    And sweet affection prove the spring of woe."

Home.


I.

    O thou pale orb, that silent shines,
        While care-untroubled mortals sleep!
    Thou seest a wretch who inly pines,
        And wanders here to wail and weep!
    With woe I nightly vigils keep,
        Beneath thy wan, unwarming beam,
    And mourn, in lamentation deep,
        How life and love are all a dream.

II.

    A joyless view thy rays adorn
        The faintly marked distant hill:
    I joyless view thy trembling horn,
        Reflected in the gurgling rill:
    My fondly-fluttering heart, be still:
        Thou busy pow'r, Remembrance, cease!
    Ah! must the agonizing thrill
    ...

Robert Burns

Memorials Of A Tour In Scotland, 1803 IV. To The Sons Of Burns - After Visiting The Grave Of Their Father

'Mid crowded obelisks and urns
I sought the untimely grave of Burns;
Sons of the Bard, my heart still mourns
With sorrow true;
And more would grieve, but that it turns
Trembling to you!

Through twilight shades of good and ill
Ye now are panting up life's hill,
And more than common strength and skill
Must ye display;
If ye would give the better will
Its lawful sway.

Hath Nature strung your nerves to bear
Intemperance with less harm, beware!
But if the Poet's wit ye share,
Like him can speed
The social hour, of tenfold care
There will be need;

For honest men delight will take
To spare your failings for his sake,
Will flatter you, and fool and rake
Your steps pursue;
And of your Father's name will make
A snare ...

William Wordsworth

Sonnet, On The Death Of Robert Riddel, Esq. Of Glenriddel, April, 1794.

    No more, ye warblers of the wood, no more!
        Nor pour your descant, grating, on my soul;
        Thou young-eyed Spring, gay in thy verdant stole,
    More welcome were to me grim Winter's wildest roar.

    How can ye charm, ye flow'rs, with all your dyes?
        Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my friend:
        How can I to the tuneful strain attend?
    That strain flows round th' untimely tomb where Riddel lies.

    Yes, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes of woe!
        And soothe the Virtues weeping on this bier:
        The Man of Worth, who has not left his peer,
    Is in his "narrow house" for ever darkly low.

    Thee, Spring, again with joy shall others greet,
    Me, mem'ry of my loss will only meet.

Robert Burns

Maternal Grief

Departed Child! I could forget thee once
Though at my bosom nursed; this woeful gain
Thy dissolution brings, that in my soul
Is present and perpetually abides
A shadow, never, never to be displaced
By the returning substance, seen or touched,
Seen by mine eyes, or clasped in my embrace.
Absence and death how differ they! and how
Shall I admit that nothing can restore
What one short sigh so easily removed?
Death, life, and sleep, reality and thought,
Assist me, God, their boundaries to know,
O teach me calm submission to thy Will!
The Child she mourned had overstepped the pale
Of Infancy, but still did breathe the air
That sanctifies its confines, and partook
Reflected beams of that celestial light
To all the Little-ones on sinful earth
Not unvouchsaf...

William Wordsworth