Inscription. On The Headstone Of Fergusson.

    Here lies
    ROBERT FERGUSSON, Poet.
    Born, September 5, 1751;
        Died, Oct. 15, 1774.

    No sculptured marble here, nor pompous lay,
        "No storied urn nor animated bust;"
    This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way
        To pour her sorrows o'er her poet's dust.

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

Blooming Nelly.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Extempore Pinned On A Lady's Couch.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Impromptu, On Mrs. R----'s Birthday.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Highland Mary.

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.

Verses - Written Under The Portrait Of Fergusson, The Poet, In A Copy Of That Author's Works Presented To A Young Lady.

    Curse on ungrateful man, that can be pleas'd,
    And yet can starve the author of the pleasure!
    O thou my elder brother in misfortune,
    By far my elder brother in the muses,
    With tears I pity thy unhappy fate!
    Why is the bard unpitied by the world,
    Yet has so keen a relish of its pleasures?

Robert Burns

Robert Burns.

One hundred years have come and gone,
Since thy brave spirit came to earth,
Since Scotland saw thy genius dawn,
And had the joy to give thee birth.

There was no proud and brilliant throng,
To celebrate thine advent here,
And but the humble heard the song,
Which first proclaim'd a poet near.

But genius will assert its right
To speak a word, or chant a lay,
And thou, with independent might,
Asserted it from day to day.

No fawning, sycophantic whine,
Marr'd the clear note thy spirit blew,
Thy stirring words, thy gift divine,
Were to thyself and country true.

Tho' heir to naught of wealth, or land,
Thy soaring mind, with fancy fir'd,
Saw, in Creation's lavish hand,
The gifts display'd, thy soul desir'd.

The field, ...

Thomas Frederick Young

Scottish Poets.

The following ode was read by the author at the Centennial Anniversary of Burns in the year 1859.


        This night shall never be forgot
            For humble life none now despise,
        Since Burns was born in lowly cot
            Whose muses wing soars to the skies.

        'Round Scotia's brow he wove a wreath
            And raised her name in classic story
        A deathless fame he did bequeath,
            His country's pride, his country's glory.

        He sang her hills, he sang her dales,
            Of Bonnie Doon and Banks of Ayr,
        Of death and Hornbook and such tales
            As Tam O'Shanter and his mare.

        He bravely taught that manly worth
            More precious is than finest gold,
        H...

James McIntyre

Inscription VIII. For The Cenotaph At Ermenonville.

STRANGER! the MAN OF NATURE lies not here:
Enshrin'd far distant by his [1] rival's side
His relics rest, there by the giddy throng
With blind idolatry alike revered!
Wiselier directed have thy pilgrim feet
Explor'd the scenes of Ermenonville. ROUSSEAU
Loved these calm haunts of Solitude and Peace;
Here he has heard the murmurs of the stream,
And the soft rustling of the poplar grove,
When o'er their bending boughs the passing wind
Swept a grey shade. Here if thy breast be full,
If in thine eye the tear devout should gush,
His SPIRIT shall behold thee, to thine home
From hence returning, purified of heart.

Robert Southey

Epitaph.

    Here brewer Gabriel's fire's extinct,
        And empty all his barrels:
    He's blest, if, as he brew'd, he drink,
        In upright virtuous morals.

Robert Burns

On A Friend.

    An honest man here lies at rest
    As e'er God with his image blest!
    The friend of man, the friend of truth;
    The friend of age, and guide of youth;
    Few hearts like his, with virtue warm'd,
    Few heads with knowledge so inform'd:
    If there's another world, he lives in bliss;
    If there is none, he made the best of this.

Robert Burns