Open The Door To Me, Oh!

I.

    Oh, open the door, some pity to show,
        Oh, open the door to me, Oh!^[1]
    Tho' thou has been false, I'll ever prove true,
        Oh, open the door to me, Oh!

II.

    Cauld is the blast upon my pale cheek,
        But caulder thy love for me, Oh!
    The frost that freezes the life at my heart,
        Is nought to my pains frae thee, Oh!

III.

    The wan moon is setting behind the white wave,
        And time is setting with me, Oh!
    False friends, false love, farewell! for mair
        I'll ne'er trouble them, nor thee, Oh!

IV.

    She has open'd the door, she has open'd it wide;
        She sees his pale corse on the plain, Oh!
    My true love! she cried, and sank down by his side,
        Never to rise again, Oh!

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

Poem, Addressed To Mr. Mitchell, Collector Of Excise. Dumfries, 1796.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

The Author's Earnest Cry And Prayer To The Scotch Representatives In The House Of Commons.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Meg O' The Mill.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Tibbie, I Hae Seen The Day.

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.

Forlorn, My Love, No Comfort Near.

Tune - "Let me in this ae night."



I.

    Forlorn, my love, no comfort near,
    Far, far from thee, I wander here;
    Far, far from thee, the fate severe
        At which I most repine, love.
            O wert thou, love, but near me;
            But near, near, near me;
            How kindly thou wouldst cheer me,
                And mingle sighs with mine, love

II.

    Around me scowls a wintry sky,
    That blasts each bud of hope and joy;
    And shelter, shade, nor home have I,
        Save in those arms of thine, love.

III.

    Cold, alter'd friendship's cruel part,
    To poison Fortune's ruthless dart,
    Let me not break thy faithful heart,
        And say that fate is mine, lov...

Robert Burns

Fair Eliza.

A Gaelic Air.



I.

    Turn again, thou fair Eliza,
        Ae kind blink before we part,
    Rue on thy despairing lover!
        Canst thou break his faithfu' heart?
    Turn again, thou fair Eliza;
        If to love thy heart denies,
    For pity hide the cruel sentence
        Under friendship's kind disguise!

II.

    Thee, dear maid, hae I offended?
        The offence is loving thee:
    Canst thou wreck his peace for ever,
        Wha for time wad gladly die?
    While the life beats in my bosom,
        Thou shalt mix in ilka throe;
    Turn again, thou lovely maiden.
        Ae sweet smile on me bestow.

III.

    Not the bee upon the blossom,
        In the pride o' sunny no...

Robert Burns

O Wha Is She That Loves Me.

Tune - "Morag."


I.

    O wha is she that lo'es me,
        And has my heart a-keeping?
    O sweet is she that lo'es me,
        As dews of simmer weeping,
        In tears the rosebuds steeping!
                O that's the lassie of my heart,
                    My lassie ever dearer;
                O that's the queen of womankind,
                    And ne'er a ane to peer her.

II.

    If thou shalt meet a lassie
        In grace and beauty charming,
    That e'en thy chosen lassie,
        Erewhile thy breast sae warming
        Had ne'er sic powers alarming.

III.

    If thou hadst heard her talking,
        And thy attentions plighted,
    That ilka body talking,
        But her b...

Robert Burns

Ca' The Yowes.

I.

    Ca' the yowes to the knowes,
    Ca' them whare the heather growes,
    Ca' them whare the burnie rowes -
        My bonnie dearie!
    Hark the mavis' evening sang
    Sounding Cluden's woods amang!
    Then a faulding let us gang,
        My bonnie dearie.

II.

    We'll gae down by Cluden side,
    Thro' the hazels spreading wide,
    O'er the waves that sweetly glide
        To the moon sae clearly.

III.

    Yonder Cluden's silent towers,
    Where at moonshine midnight hours,
    O'er the dewy bending flowers,
        Fairies dance so cheery.

IV.

    Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear;
    Thou'rt to love and heaven sae dear,
    Nocht of ill may come thee near,
        My bo...

Robert Burns

Auld Rob Morris.

I.

    There's auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen,
    He's the king o' guid fellows and wale of auld men;
    He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and kine,
    And ae bonnie lassie, his darling and mine.

II.

    She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May;
    She's sweet as the ev'ning amang the new hay;
    As blythe and as artless as the lamb on the lea,
    And dear to my heart as the light to my e'e.

III.

    But oh! she's an heiress, auld Robin's a laird,
    And my daddie has nought but a cot-house and yard;
    A wooer like me mamma hope to come speed;
    The wounds I must hide that will soon be my dead.

IV.

    The day comes to me, but delight brings me nane;
    The night comes to me, but my...

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