Address To The Shade Of Thomson, On Crowning His Bust At Ednam With Bays.

    While virgin Spring, by Eden's flood,
        Unfolds her tender mantle green,
    Or pranks the sod in frolic mood,
        Or tunes Æolian strains between:

    While Summer, with a matron grace,
        Retreats to Dryburgh's cooling shade,
    Yet oft, delighted, stops to trace
        The progress of the spiky blade:

    While Autumn, benefactor kind,
        By Tweed erects his aged head,
    And sees, with self-approving mind,
        Each creature on his bounty fed:

    While maniac Winter rages o'er
        The hills whence classic Yarrow flows,
    Rousing the turbid torrent's roar,
        Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows:

    So long, sweet Poet of the year!
        Shall bloom that wreath thou well hast won;
    While Scotia, with exulting tear,
        Proclaims that Thomson was her son.

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

The Banks Of Nith.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Chloe.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Sonnet, Written On The Twenty-Fifth Of January, 1793, The Birthday Of The Author, On Hearing A Thrush Sing In A Morning Walk.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

To Mary.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

English

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The Humble Petition Of Bruar Water To The Noble Duke Of Athole.

I.

    My Lord, I know your noble ear
        Woe ne'er assails in vain;
    Embolden'd thus, I beg you'll hear
        Your humble slave complain,
    How saucy Phoebus' scorching beams
        In flaming summer-pride,
    Dry-withering, waste my foamy streams,
        And drink my crystal tide.

II.

    The lightly-jumpin' glowrin' trouts,
        That thro' my waters play,
    If, in their random, wanton spouts,
        They near the margin stray;
    If, hapless chance! they linger lang,
        I'm scorching up so shallow,
    They're left the whitening stanes amang,
        In gasping death to wallow.

III.

    Last day I grat wi' spite and teen,
        As Poet Burns came by,
    That to a bard I shou...

Robert Burns

Address To Edinburgh.

I.

    Edina! Scotia's darling seat!
        All hail thy palaces and tow'rs,
    Where once beneath a monarch's feet
        Sat Legislation's sov'reign pow'rs!
    From marking wildly-scatter'd flow'rs,
        As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd,
    And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours,
        I shelter in thy honour'd shade.

II.

    Here wealth still swells the golden tide,
        As busy Trade his labour plies;
    There Architecture's noble pride
        Bids elegance and splendour rise;
    Here Justice, from her native skies,
        High wields her balance and her rod;
    There Learning, with his eagle eyes,
        Seeks Science in her coy abode.

III.

    Thy sons, Edina! social, kind,
        With...

Robert Burns

Lament Of Mary, Queen Of Scots, On The Approach Of Spring.

I.

    Now Nature hangs her mantle green
        On every blooming tree,
    And spreads her sheets o' daisies white
        Out o'er the grassy lea:
    Now Phoebus cheers the crystal streams,
        And glads the azure skies;
    But nought can glad the weary wight
        That fast in durance lies.

II.

    Now lav'rocks wake the merry morn,
        Aloft on dewy wing;
    The merle, in his noontide bow'r,
        Makes woodland echoes ring;
    The mavis wild wi' mony a note,
        Sings drowsy day to rest:
    In love and freedom they rejoice,
        Wi' care nor thrall opprest.

III.

    Now blooms the lily by the bank,
        The primrose down the brae;
    The hawthorn's budding in the glen,

Robert Burns

Now Spring Has Clad The Grove In Green. To Mr. Cunningham.

I.

    Now spring has clad the grove in green,
        And strew'd the lea wi' flowers:
    The furrow'd waving corn is seen
        Rejoice in fostering showers;
    While ilka thing in nature join
        Their sorrows to forego,
    O why thus all alone are mine
        The weary steps of woe?

II.

    The trout within yon wimpling burn
        Glides swift, a silver dart,
    And safe beneath the shady thorn
        Defies the angler's art:
    My life was ance that careless stream,
        That wanton trout was I;
    But love, wi' unrelenting beam,
        Has scorch'd my fountains dry.

III.

    The little flow'ret's peaceful lot,
        In yonder cliff that grows,
    Which, save the linnet's flight...

Robert Burns

Written With A Pencil, Over The Chimney-Piece, In The Parlour Of The Inn At Kenmore, Taymouth.

    Admiring Nature in her wildest grace,
    These northern scenes with weary feet I trace;
    O'er many a winding dale and painful steep,
    Th' abodes of covey'd grouse and timid sheep,
    My savage journey, curious I pursue,
    'Till fam'd Breadalbane opens to my view.
    The meeting cliffs each deep-sunk glen divides,
    The woods, wild scatter'd, clothe their ample sides;
    Th' outstretching lake, embosom'd 'mong the hills,
    The eye with wonder and amazement fills;
    The Tay, meand'ring sweet in infant pride,
    The palace, rising on its verdant side;
    The lawns, wood-fring'd in Nature's native taste;
    The hillocks, dropt in Nature's careless haste;
    The arches, striding o'er the new-born stream;
    The village, glittering in the noont...

Robert Burns

Poetical Address To Mr. W. Tytler, With The Present Of The Bard's Picture.

    Revered defender of beauteous Stuart,
        Of Stuart, a name once respected,
    A name, which to love, was once mark of a true heart,
        But now 'tis despis'd and neglected.

    Tho' something like moisture conglobes in my eye,
        Let no one misdeem me disloyal;
    A poor friendless wand'rer may well claim a sigh,
        Still more, if that wand'rer were royal.

    My fathers that name have rever'd on a throne,
        My fathers have fallen to right it;
    Those fathers would spurn their degenerate son,
        That name should he scoffingly slight it.

    Still in prayers for King George I most heartily join,
        The Queen and the rest of the gentry,
    Be they wise, be they foolish, is nothing of mine;
        Their ti...

Robert Burns