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

    Inhuman man! curse on thy barb'rous art,
        And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye;
        May never pity soothe thee with a sigh,
    Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart.

    Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and field!
        The bitter little that of life remains:
        No more the thickening brakes and verdant plains
    To thee shall home, or food, or pastime yield.

    Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted rest,
        No more of rest, but now thy dying bed!
        The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy head,
    The cold earth with thy bloody bosom prest.

    Oft as by winding Nith, I, musing, wait
        The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn;
        I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn,
    And curse the ruffian's aim, and mourn thy hapless fate.

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

Sketch.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Simmer's A Pleasant Time.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

The Poor And Honest Sodger.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Anna, Thy Charms.

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 The Death Of Robert Dundas, Esq., Of Arniston, Late Lord President Of The Court Of Session.

    Lone on the bleaky hills the straying flocks
    Shun the fierce storms among the sheltering rocks;
    Down from the rivulets, red with dashing rains,
    The gathering floods burst o'er the distant plains;
    Beneath the blasts the leafless forests groan;
    The hollow caves return a sullen moan.

    Ye hills, ye plains, ye forests and ye caves,
    Ye howling winds, and wintry swelling waves!
    Unheard, unseen, by human ear or eye,
    Sad to your sympathetic scenes I fly;
    Where to the whistling blast and waters' roar
    Pale Scotia's recent wound I may deplore.

    O heavy loss, thy country ill could bear!
    A loss these evil days can ne'er repair!
    Justice, the high vicegerent of her God,
    Her doubtful balance ey'd, and sway'd ...

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

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

On Scaring Some Water-Fowl In Loch-Turit.

    Why, ye tenants of the lake,
    For me your wat'ry haunt forsake?
    Tell me, fellow-creatures, why
    At my presence thus you fly?

    Why disturb your social joys,
    Parent, filial, kindred ties?
    Common friend to you and me,
    Nature's gifts to all are free:
    Peaceful keep your dimpling wave,
    Busy feed, or wanton lave:
    Or, beneath the sheltering rock,
    Bide the surging billow's shock.

    Conscious, blushing for our race,
    Soon, too soon, your fears I trace.
    Man, your proud usurping foe,
    Would be lord of all below:
    Plumes himself in Freedom's pride,
    Tyrant stern to all beside.

    The eagle, from the cliffy brow,
    Marking you his prey below,
    In his breast no pity dwe...

Robert Burns

Man Was Made To Mourn. - A Dirge.

    When chill November's surly blast
        Made fields and forests bare,
    One ev'ning as I wandered forth
        Along the banks of Ayr,
    I spy'd a man whose aged step
        Seem'd weary, worn with care;
    His face was furrow'd o'er with years,
        And hoary was his hair.

    "Young stranger, whither wand'rest thou?"
        Began the rev'rend sage;
    "Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain,
        Or youthful pleasure's rage?
    Or haply, prest with cares and woes,
        Too soon thou hast began
    To wander forth, with me to mourn
        The miseries of man.

    "The sun that overhangs yon moors,
        Out-spreading far and wide,
    Where hundreds labour to support
        A haughty lordling's pride:<...

Robert Burns

Lament For James, Earl Of Glencairn.

I.

    The wind blew hollow frae the hills,
        By fits the sun's departing beam
    Look'd on the fading yellow woods
        That wav'd o'er Lugar's winding stream:
    Beneath a craggy steep, a bard,
        Laden with years and meikle pain,
    In loud lament bewail'd his lord,
        Whom death had all untimely ta'en.

II.

    He lean'd him to an ancient aik,
        Whose trunk was mould'ring down with years;
    His locks were bleached white with time,
        His hoary cheek was wet wi' tears;
    And as he touch'd his trembling harp,
        And as he tun'd his doleful sang,
    The winds, lamenting thro' their caves,
        To echo bore the notes alang.

III.

    "Ye scattered birds that faintly sing,<...

Robert Burns