On The Author's Father.

    O ye whose cheek the tear of pity stains,
        Draw near with pious rev'rence and attend!
    Here lie the loving husband's dear remains,
        The tender father and the gen'rous friend.
    The pitying heart that felt for human woe;
        The dauntless heart that feared no human pride;
    The friend of man, to vice alone a foe;
        "For ev'n his failings lean'd to virtue's side."

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

Saw Ye My Phely. (Quasi Dicat Phillis.)

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Up In The Morning Early

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Behold The Hour.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

The Whistle.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

English

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Memorials Of A Tour In Scotland, 1803 IV. To The Sons Of Burns - After Visiting The Grave Of Their Father

'Mid crowded obelisks and urns
I sought the untimely grave of Burns;
Sons of the Bard, my heart still mourns
With sorrow true;
And more would grieve, but that it turns
Trembling to you!

Through twilight shades of good and ill
Ye now are panting up life's hill,
And more than common strength and skill
Must ye display;
If ye would give the better will
Its lawful sway.

Hath Nature strung your nerves to bear
Intemperance with less harm, beware!
But if the Poet's wit ye share,
Like him can speed
The social hour, of tenfold care
There will be need;

For honest men delight will take
To spare your failings for his sake,
Will flatter you, and fool and rake
Your steps pursue;
And of your Father's name will make
A snare ...

William Wordsworth

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

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

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

Lines Sent To Sir John Whitefoord, Bart., Of Whitefoord. With The Foregoing Poem.

    Thou, who thy honour as thy God rever'st,
    Who, save thy mind's reproach, nought earthly fear'st,
    To thee this votive offering I impart,
    The tearful tribute of a broken heart.
    The friend thou valuedst, I, the patron, lov'd;
    His worth, his honour, all the world approv'd,
    We'll mourn till we too go as he has gone,
    And tread the dreary path to that dark world unknown.

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