Flow Gently, Sweet Afton.

Tune - "Afton Water."


I.

    Flow gently, sweet Afton! among thy green braes,
    Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise;
    My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,
    Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

II.

    Thou stock-dove, whose echo resounds thro' the glen;
    Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den;
    Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear,
    I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair.

III.

    How lofty, sweet Afton! thy neighbouring hills,
    Far mark'd with the courses of clear, winding rills;
    There daily I wander as noon rises high,
    My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye.

IV.

    How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below,
    Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow!
    There, oft as mild evening weeps over the lea,
    The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me.

V.

    Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides,
    And winds by the cot where my Mary resides;
    How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave,
    As gathering sweet flow'rets she stems thy clear wave.

VI.

    Flow gently, sweet Afton! among thy green braes,
    Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays!
    My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,
    Flow gently, sweet Afton! disturb not her dream.

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 Exciseman.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Lines Written On A Bank-Note.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Here Is The Glen.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

A Fragment.

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.

Highland Mary.

Tune - "Katherine Ogie."


I.

    Ye banks, and braes, and streams around
        The castle o' Montgomery,
    Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,
        Your waters never drumlie!
    There Simmer first unfauld her robes,
        And there the langest tarry;
    For there I took the last farewell
        O' my sweet Highland Mary.

II.

    How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk,
        How rich the hawthorn's blossom,
    As underneath their fragrant shade
        I clasp'd her to my bosom!
    The golden hours, on angel wings,
        Flew o'er me and my dearie;
    For dear to me, as light and life,
        Was my sweet Highland Mary!

III.

    Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace,

Robert Burns

Burns

On receiving a sprig of heather in blossom.



No more these simple flowers belong
To Scottish maid and lover;
Sown in the common soil of song,
They bloom the wide world over.

In smiles and tears, in sun and showers,
The minstrel and the heather,
The deathless singer and the flowers
He sang of live together.

Wild heather-bells and Robert Burns
The moorland flower and peasant!
How, at their mention, memory turns
Her pages old and pleasant!

The gray sky wears again its gold
And purple of adorning,
And manhood's noonday shadows hold
The dews of boyhood's morning.

The dews that washed the dust and soil
From off the wings of pleasure,
The sky, that flecked the, ground of toil
With golden threads of l...

John Greenleaf Whittier

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

The Banks Of The Devon.

Tune. - "Bhannerach dhon na chri."


I.

    How pleasant the banks of the clear winding Devon,
        With green spreading bushes, and flowers blooming fair!
    But the bonniest flower on the banks of the Devon
        Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the Ayr.
    Mild be the sun on this sweet blushing flower,
        In the gay rosy morn, as it bathes in the dew;
    And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower,
        That steals on the evening each leaf to renew.

II.

    O spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes,
        With chill hoary wing, as ye usher the dawn;
    And far be thou distant, thou reptile that seizes
        The verdure and pride of the garden and lawn!
    Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded Lilies,...

Robert Burns

The Lass Of Ballochmyle.

Tune - "Miss Forbes's Farewell to Banff."


I.

    'Twas even, the dewy fields were green,
        On every blade the pearls hang,
    The zephyr wanton'd round the bean,
        And bore its fragrant sweets alang:
    In ev'ry glen the mavis sang,
        All nature listening seem'd the while,
    Except where greenwood echoes rang
        Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle!

II.

    With careless step I onward stray'd,
        My heart rejoic'd in nature's joy,
    When musing in a lonely glade,
        A maiden fair I chanc'd to spy;
    Her look was like the morning's eye,
        Her air like nature's vernal smile,
    Perfection whisper'd passing by,
        Behold the lass o' Ballochmyle!

III.

Robert Burns

The Banks Of Doon. (First Version.)

I.

    Ye flowery banks o' bonnie Doon,
        How can ye bloom sae fair;
    How can ye chant, ye little birds,
        And I sae fu' o' care!

II.

    Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird,
        That sings upon the bough;
    Thou minds me o' the happy days
        When my fause love was true.

III.

    Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird,
        That sings beside thy mate;
    For sae I sat, and sae I sang,
        And wist na o' my fate.

IV.

    Aft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon,
        To see the woodbine twine,
    And ilka bird sang o' its love;
        And sae did I o' mine.

V.

    Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose,
        Frae aff its thorny tree:
    An...

Robert Burns