Lying At A Reverend Friend's House On Night, The Author Left The Following Verses In The Room Where He Slept.

I.

    O thou dread Power, who reign'st above!
        I know thou wilt me hear,
    When for this scene of peace and love
        I make my prayer sincere.

II.

    The hoary sire, the mortal stroke,
        Long, long, be pleased to spare;
    To bless his filial little flock
        And show what good men are.

III.

    She who her lovely offspring eyes
        With tender hopes and fears,
    O, bless her with a mother's joys,
        But spare a mother's tears!

IV.

    Their hope, their stay, their darling youth,
        In manhood's dawning blush,
    Bless him, thou GOD of love and truth,
        Up to a parent's wish!

V.

    The beauteous, seraph sister-band,
        With earnest tears I pray,
    Thous know'st the snares on ev'ry hand,
        Guide Thou their steps alway.

VI.

    When soon or late they reach that coast,
        O'er life's rough ocean driven,
    May they rejoice, no wanderer lost,
        A family in Heaven!

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

On Seeing A Wounded Hare Limp By Me, Which A Fellow Had Just Shot.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Somebody.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

O Ay My Wife She Dang Me.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

On A Wag In Mauchline.

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.

Epistle To A Young Friend. - May, 1786.

I.

    I lang hae thought, my youthfu' friend,
        A something to have sent you,
    Though it should serve nae ither end
        Than just a kind memento;
    But how the subject-theme may gang,
        Let time and chance determine;
    Perhaps it may turn out a sang,
        Perhaps, turn out a sermon.

II.

    Ye'll try the world soon, my lad,
        And, Andrew dear, believe me,
    Ye'll find mankind an unco squad,
        And muckle they may grieve ye:
    For care and trouble set your thought,
        Ev'n when your end's attain'd;
    And a' your views may come to nought,
        Where ev'ry nerve is strained.

III.

    I'll no say men are villains a';
        The real, harden'd wicked,
    Wha...

Robert Burns

Written In Friars-Carse Hermitage, On Nithside. December, 1788.

    Thou whom chance may hither lead,
    Be thou clad in russet weed,
    Be thou deck'd in silken stole,
    Grave these counsels on thy soul.

    Life is but a day at most,
    Sprung from night, in darkness lost;
    Hope not sunshine ev'ry hour.
    Fear not clouds will always lour.
    As Youth and Love with sprightly dance
    Beneath thy morning star advance,
    Pleasure with her siren air
    May delude the thoughtless pair:
    Let Prudence bless enjoyment's cup,
    Then raptur'd sip, and sip it up.

    As thy day grows warm and high,
    Life's meridian flaming nigh,
    Dost thou spurn the humble vale?
    Life's proud summits would'st thou scale?
    Check thy climbing step, elate,
    Evils lurk in felon wait:
  ...

Robert Burns

Memorials Of A Tour In Scotland, 1803 II. At The Grave Of Burns, 1803

SEVEN YEARS AFTER HIS DEATH

I shiver, Spirit fierce and bold,
At thought of what I now behold:
As vapours breathed from dungeons cold,
Strike pleasure dead,
So sadness comes from out the mould
Where Burns is laid.

And have I then thy bones so near,
And thou forbidden to appear?
As if it were thyself that's here
I shrink with pain;
And both my wishes and my fear
Alike are vain.

Off weight, nor press on weight! away
Dark thoughts! they came, but not to stay;
With chastened feelings would I pay
The tribute due
To him, and aught that hides his clay
From mortal view.

Fresh as the flower, whose modest worth
He sang, his genius "glinted" forth,
Rose like a star that touching earth,
For so it seems,
Doth glori...

William Wordsworth

Letter To James Tennant, Of Glenconner.

    Auld comrade dear, and brither sinner,
    How's a' the folk about Glenconner?
    How do you this blae eastlin wind,
    That's like to blaw a body blind?
    For me, my faculties are frozen,
    My dearest member nearly dozen'd,
    I've sent you here, by Johnie Simson,
    Twa sage philosophers to glimpse on;
    Smith, wi' his sympathetic feeling,
    An' Reid, to common sense appealing.
    Philosophers have fought and wrangled,
    An' meikle Greek and Latin mangled,
    Till wi' their logic-jargon tir'd,
    An' in the depth of science mir'd,
    To common sense they now appeal,
    What wives and wabsters see and feel.
    But, hark ye, friend! I charge you strictly
    Peruse them, an' return them quickly,
    For now I'm grown sae curse...

Robert Burns

Holy Willie's Prayer.

"And send the godly in a pet to pray."

Pope.


    O thou, wha in the heavens dost dwell,
    Wha, as it pleases best thysel',
    Sends ane to heaven, and ten to hell,
        A' for thy glory,
    And no for ony gude or ill
        They've done afore thee!

    I bless and praise thy matchless might,
    Whan thousands thou hast left in night,
    That I am here afore thy sight,
        For gifts and grace,
    A burnin' and a shinin' light
        To a' this place.

    What was I, or my generation,
    That I should get sic exaltation,
    I wha deserve sic just damnation,
        For broken laws,
    Five thousand years 'fore my creation,
        Thro' Adam's cause.

    When frae my mither's womb I fell,...

Robert Burns

Memorials Of A Tour In Scotland

Too frail to keep the lofty vow
That must have followed when his brow
Was wreathed "The Vision" tells us how
With holly spray,
He faltered, drifted to and fro,
And passed away.

Well might such thoughts, dear Sister, throng
Our minds when, lingering all too long,
Over the grave of Burns we hung
In social grief
Indulged as if it were a wrong
To seek relief.

But, leaving each unquiet theme
Where gentlest judgments may misdeem,
And prompt to welcome every gleam
Of good and fair,
Let us beside this limpid Stream
Breathe hopeful air.

Enough of sorrow, wreck, and blight;
Think rather of those moments bright
When to the consciousness of right
His course was true,
When Wisdom prospered in his sight
And virtue grew.

William Wordsworth