On Robert Riddel.

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

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

To The Men And Brethren Of The Masonic Lodge At Tarbolton.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

On Captain Francis Grose.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Adown Winding Nith.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

English

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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

Ode Sacred To The Memory Of Mrs. Oswald, Of Auchencruive.

    Dweller in yon dungeon dark,
    Hangman of creation, mark!
    Who in widow-weeds appears,
    Laden with unhonoured years,
    Noosing with care a bursting purse,
    Baited with many a deadly curse?

Strophe.

    View the wither'd beldam's face,
    Can thy keen inspection trace
    Aught of Humanity's sweet melting grace?
    Note that eye, 'tis rheum o'erflows,
    Pity's flood there never rose.
    See these hands, ne'er stretch'd to save,
    Hands that took, but never gave.
    Keeper of Mammon's iron chest,
    Lo, there she goes, unpitied and unblest
    She goes, but not to realms of everlasting rest!

Antistrophe.

    Plunderer of armies, lift thine eyes,
    (Awhile forbear, ye tort'ring fiends;)
    S...

Robert Burns

Elegy On The Death Of Robert Ruisseaux.

    Now Robin lies in his last lair,
    He'll gabble rhyme, nor sing nae mair,
    Cauld poverty, wi' hungry stare,
        Nae mair shall fear him;
    Nor anxious fear, nor cankert care,
        E'er mair come near him.

    To tell the truth, they seldom fash't him,
    Except the moment that they crush't him;
    For sune as chance or fate had hush't 'em,
        Tho' e'er sae short,
    Then wi' a rhyme or song he lash't 'em,
        And thought it sport.

    Tho' he was bred to kintra wark,
    And counted was baith wight and stark.
    Yet that was never Robin's mark
        To mak a man;
    But tell him he was learned and clark,
        Ye roos'd him than!

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

Elegy On Miss Burnet, Of Monboddo.

    Life ne'er exulted in so rich a prize
    As Burnet, lovely from her native skies;
    Nor envious death so triumph'd in a blow,
    As that which laid th' accomplish'd Burnet low.

    Thy form and mind, sweet maid, can I forget?
    In richest ore the brightest jewel set!
    In thee, high Heaven above was truest shown,
    As by his noblest work, the Godhead best is known.

    In vain ye flaunt in summer's pride, ye groves;
        Thou crystal streamlet with thy flowery shore,
    Ye woodland choir that chant your idle loves,
        Ye cease to charm, Eliza is no more!

    Ye heathy wastes, immix'd with reedy fens;
        Ye mossy streams, with sedge and rushes stor'd;
    Ye rugged cliffs, o'erhanging dreary glens,
        To you I fly, ...

Robert Burns

To Captain Riddel, Of Glenriddel. Extempore Lines On Returning A Newspaper.

Ellisland, Monday Evening.

    Your news and review, Sir, I've read through and through, Sir,
        With little admiring or blaming;
    The papers are barren of home-news or foreign,
        No murders or rapes worth the naming.

    Our friends, the reviewers, those chippers and hewers,
        Are judges of mortar and stone, Sir,
    But of meet or unmeet in a fabric complete,
        I'll boldly pronounce they are none, Sir.

    My goose-quill too rude is to tell all your goodness
        Bestow'd on your servant, the Poet;
    Would to God I had one like a beam of the sun,
        And then all the world, Sir, should know it!

Robert Burns