How Cruel Are The Parents.

Tune - "John Anderson, my jo."


I.

    How cruel are the parents
        Who riches only prize,
    And, to the wealthy booby,
        Poor woman sacrifice!
    Meanwhile the hapless daughter
        Has but a choice of strife;
    To shun a tyrant father's hate,
        Become a wretched wife.

II.

    The ravening hawk pursuing,
        The trembling dove thus flies,
    To shun impelling ruin
        Awhile her pinions tries:
    Till of escape despairing,
        No shelter or retreat,
    She trusts the ruthless falconer,
        And drops beneath his feet!

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

Wilt Thou Be My Dearie.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

To Robert Graham, Esq., Of Fintray. On Receiving A Favour.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

This Is No My Ain Lassie.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

O Bonnie Was Yon Rosy Brier.

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.

Fair Jeany.

Tune - "Saw ye my father?"



I.

    Where are the joys I have met in the morning,
        That danc'd to the lark's early song?
    Where is the peace that awaited my wand'ring,
        At evening the wild woods among?

II.

    No more a-winding the course of yon river,
        And marking sweet flow'rets so fair:
    No more I trace the light footsteps of pleasure,
        But sorrow and sad sighing care.

III.

    Is it that summer's forsaken our valleys,
        And grim, surly winter is near?
    No, no, the bees' humming round the gay roses,
        Proclaim it the pride of the year.

IV.

    Fain would I hide, what I fear to discover,
        Yet long, long too well have I known,

Robert Burns

A Winter Night.

    "Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are
    That bide the pelting of the pitiless storm!
    How shall your houseless heads and unfed sides,
    Your looped and widow'd raggedness defend you
    From seasons such as these?"

Shakspeare.


    When biting Boreas, fell and doure,
    Sharp shivers thro' the leafless bow'r;
    When Phoebus gies a short-liv'd glow'r
        Far south the lift,
    Dim-darkening through the flaky show'r,
        Or whirling drift:

    Ae night the storm the steeples rocked,
    Poor labour sweet in sleep was locked,
    While burns, wi' snawy wreeths up-choked,
        Wild-eddying swirl.
    Or through the mining outlet bocked,
        Down headlong hurl.

    Listening, the doors an' win...

Robert Burns

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

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

To Robert Graham, Esq., Of Fintray.

    Late crippl'd of an arm, and now a leg,
    About to beg a pass for leave to beg:
    Dull, listless, teas'd, dejected, and deprest,
    (Nature is adverse to a cripple's rest;)
    Will generous Graham list to his Poet's wail?
    (It soothes poor misery, hearkening to her tale,)
    And hear him curse the light he first survey'd,
    And doubly curse the luckless rhyming trade?

    Thou, Nature, partial Nature! I arraign;
    Of thy caprice maternal I complain:
    The lion and the bull thy care have found,
    One shakes the forests, and one spurns the ground:
    Thou giv'st the ass his hide, the snail his shell,
    Th' envenom'd wasp, victorious, guards his cell;
    Thy minions, kings, defend, control, devour,
    In all th' omnipotence of rule and...

Robert Burns

Husband, Husband.

Tune - "Jo Janet."



I.

    Husband, husband, cease your strife,
        Nor longer idly rave, sir;
    Tho' I am your wedded wife,
        Yet I am not your slave, sir.
    "One of two must still obey,
        Nancy, Nancy;
    Is it man or woman, say,
        My spouse, Nancy?"

II.

    If 'tis still the lordly word,
        Service and obedience;
    I'll desert my sov'reign lord,
        And so, good bye, allegiance!
    "Sad will I be, so bereft,
        Nancy, Nancy;
    Yet I'll try to make a shift,
        My spouse, Nancy."

III.

    My poor heart then break it must,
        My last hour I'm near it:
    When you lay me in the dust,
        Think, think, how you will...

Robert Burns