On R.A., Esq.

    Know thou, O stranger to the fame
    Of this much lov'd, much honour'd name!
    (For none that knew him need be told)
    A warmer heart death ne'er made cold.

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 Miss Jessy Lewars.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Robin.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Epitaph.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Braw Lads Of Galla Water.

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.

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

On Robert Riddel.

    To Riddel, much-lamented man,
        This ivied cot was dear;
    Reader, dost value matchless worth?
        This ivied cot revere.

Robert Burns

Epistle To Major Logan.

    Hail, thairm-inspirin', rattlin' Willie!
    Though fortune's road be rough an' hilly
    To every fiddling, rhyming billie,
        We never heed,
    But tak' it like the unback'd filly,
        Proud o' her speed.

    When idly goavan whyles we saunter
    Yirr, fancy barks, awa' we canter
    Uphill, down brae, till some mishanter,
        Some black bog-hole,
    Arrests us, then the scathe an' banter
        We're forced to thole.

    Hale be your heart! Hale be your fiddle!
    Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle,
    To cheer you through the weary widdle
        O' this wild warl',
    Until you on a crummock driddle
        A gray-hair'd carl.

    Come wealth, come poortith, late or soon,
    Heaven send your hear...

Robert Burns

Robert Burns.

(A PARAPHRASE.)


I.

Thou lingering Star! No less'ning ray
    Will e'er bedim thy natal morn,
Or usher in the unhallowed day
    When we forget that thou wert born!
O Burns! Thou dear departed shade!
    Where is thy place of blissful rest?
See'st thou again a Highland maid,
    Who heard the groans that rent thy breast?


II.

That sacred day can we forget,
    Can we forget the hallowed spot
Where by the winding Ayr was set
    The sparkling jewel in lowly cot?
Eternity will not efface
    The record dear of time that's past;
Thy memory sweet we still embrace,
    And will as long as life shall last!


III.

Ayr, congealèd to its pebbled shore,
    O'erhung with wild woods, shorn of gree...

George W. Doneghy

Sonnet, On The Death Of Robert Riddel, Esq. Of Glenriddel, April, 1794.

    No more, ye warblers of the wood, no more!
        Nor pour your descant, grating, on my soul;
        Thou young-eyed Spring, gay in thy verdant stole,
    More welcome were to me grim Winter's wildest roar.

    How can ye charm, ye flow'rs, with all your dyes?
        Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my friend:
        How can I to the tuneful strain attend?
    That strain flows round th' untimely tomb where Riddel lies.

    Yes, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes of woe!
        And soothe the Virtues weeping on this bier:
        The Man of Worth, who has not left his peer,
    Is in his "narrow house" for ever darkly low.

    Thee, Spring, again with joy shall others greet,
    Me, mem'ry of my loss will only meet.

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