On The Birth Of A Posthumous Child.

    Sweet flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love,
        And ward o' mony a pray'r,
    What heart o' stane wad thou na move,
        Sae helpless, sweet, and fair!

    November hirples o'er the lea,
        Chill on thy lovely form;
    And gane, alas! the shelt'ring tree,
        Should shield thee frae the storm.

    May He who gives the rain to pour,
        And wings the blast to blaw,
    Protect thee frae the driving show'r,
        The bitter frost and snaw!

    May He, the friend of woe and want,
        Who heals life's various stounds,
    Protect and guard the mother-plant,
        And heal her cruel wounds!

    But late she flourish'd, rooted fast,
        Fair on the summer-morn:
    Now feebly bends she in the blast,
        Unshelter'd and forlorn.

    Blest be thy bloom, thou lovely gem,
        Unscath'd by ruffian hand!
    And from thee many a parent stem
        Arise to deck our land!

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

Second Epistle To Davie, - A Brother Poet.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Epistle To J. Rankine, Enclosing Some Poems.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Lines Written On A Window Of The Globe Tavern, Dumfries.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

The Dean Of Faculty. - A New Ballad.

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.

To Miss Cruikshank, A Very Young Lady. Written On The Blank Leaf Of A Book, Presented To Her By The Author.

    Beauteous rose-bud, young and gay,
    Blooming in thy early May,
    Never may'st thou, lovely flow'r,
    Chilly shrink in sleety show'r!
    Never Boreas' hoary path,
    Never Eurus' poisonous breath,
    Never baleful stellar lights,
    Taint thee with untimely blights!
    Never, never reptile thief
    Riot on thy virgin leaf!
    Nor even Sol too fiercely view
    Thy bosom blushing still with dew!

    May'st thou long, sweet crimson gem,
    Richly deck thy native stem:
    'Till some evening, sober, calm,
    Dropping dews and breathing balm,
    While all around the woodland rings,
    And ev'ry bird thy requiem sings;
    Thou, amid the dirgeful sound,
    Shed thy dying honours round,
    And resign to parent earth

Robert Burns

Address To An Illegitimate Child.

    Thou's welcome, wean, mischanter fa' me,
    If ought of thee, or of thy mammy,
    Shall ever daunton me, or awe me,
        My sweet wee lady,
    Or if I blush when thou shalt ca' me
        Tit-ta or daddy.

    Wee image of my bonny Betty,
    I, fatherly, will kiss and daut thee,
    As dear and near my heart I set thee
        Wi' as gude will
    As a' the priests had seen me get thee
        That's out o' hell.

    What tho' they ca' me fornicator,
    An' tease my name in kintry clatter:
    The mair they talk I'm kent the better,
        E'en let them clash;
    An auld wife's tongue's a feckless matter
        To gie ane fash.

    Sweet fruit o' mony a merry dint,
    My funny toil is now a' tint,
    Sin' t...

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

To Mrs. Scott, Of Wauchope.

    I mind it weel in early date,
    When I was beardless, young and blate,
        An' first could thresh the barn;
    Or hand a yokin at the pleugh;
    An' tho' forfoughten sair enough,
        Yet unco proud to learn:
    When first amang the yellow corn
        A man I reckon'd was,
    An' wi' the lave ilk merry morn
        Could rank my rig and lass,
            Still shearing, and clearing,
                The tither stooked raw,
            Wi' claivers, an' haivers,
                Wearing the day awa.

    E'en then, a wish, I mind its pow'r,
    A wish that to my latest hour
        Shall strongly heave my breast,
    That I for poor auld Scotland's sake
    Some usefu' plan or beuk could make,
        Or sing a sang at least...

Robert Burns

Lament Of Mary, Queen Of Scots, On The Approach Of Spring.

I.

    Now Nature hangs her mantle green
        On every blooming tree,
    And spreads her sheets o' daisies white
        Out o'er the grassy lea:
    Now Phoebus cheers the crystal streams,
        And glads the azure skies;
    But nought can glad the weary wight
        That fast in durance lies.

II.

    Now lav'rocks wake the merry morn,
        Aloft on dewy wing;
    The merle, in his noontide bow'r,
        Makes woodland echoes ring;
    The mavis wild wi' mony a note,
        Sings drowsy day to rest:
    In love and freedom they rejoice,
        Wi' care nor thrall opprest.

III.

    Now blooms the lily by the bank,
        The primrose down the brae;
    The hawthorn's budding in the glen,

Robert Burns

A Mother's Lament For The Death Of Her Son.

Fate gave the word, the arrow sped,  
        And pierc'd my darling's heart;  
    And with him all the joys are fled  
        Life can to me impart.  
    By cruel hands the sapling drops,  
        In dust dishonour'd laid:  
    So fell the pride of all my hopes,  
        My age's future shade.

    The mother-linnet in the brake  
        Bewails her ravish'd young;  
    So I, for my lost darling's sake,  
        Lament the live day long.  
    Death, oft I've fear'd thy fatal blow,  
        Now, fond I bare my breast,  
    O, do thou kindly lay me low  
        With him I love, at rest!

Robert Burns