Poetical Inscription For An Altar To Independence.

    Thou of an independent mind,
    With soul resolv'd, with soul resign'd;
    Prepar'd Power's proudest frown to brave,
    Who wilt not be, nor have a slave;
    Virtue alone who dost revere,
    Thy own reproach alone dost fear,
    Approach this shrine, and worship here.

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

She's Fair And Fause.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Thou Hast Left Me Ever.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

On The Same. (On A Henpecked Country Squire.)

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Young Jamie, Pride Of A' The Plain.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

English

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Robert Burns.

One hundred years have come and gone,
Since thy brave spirit came to earth,
Since Scotland saw thy genius dawn,
And had the joy to give thee birth.

There was no proud and brilliant throng,
To celebrate thine advent here,
And but the humble heard the song,
Which first proclaim'd a poet near.

But genius will assert its right
To speak a word, or chant a lay,
And thou, with independent might,
Asserted it from day to day.

No fawning, sycophantic whine,
Marr'd the clear note thy spirit blew,
Thy stirring words, thy gift divine,
Were to thyself and country true.

Tho' heir to naught of wealth, or land,
Thy soaring mind, with fancy fir'd,
Saw, in Creation's lavish hand,
The gifts display'd, thy soul desir'd.

The field, ...

Thomas Frederick Young

The Cotter's Saturday Night. - Inscribed To Robert Aiken, Esq.

    "Let not ambition mock their useful toil,
    Their homely joys, and destiny obscure:
    Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile,
    The short and simple annals of the poor."

Gray


I.

        My lov'd, my honour'd, much respected friend!
            No mercenary bard his homage pays;
        With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end:
            My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise:
        To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays,
            The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene;
        The native feelings strong, the guileless ways;
            What Aiken in a cottage would have been;
    Ah! tho' his work unknown, far happier there, I ween!

II.

        November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh;

Robert Burns

Liberty. - A Fragment.

    Thee, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among,
    Thee, fam'd for martial deed and sacred song,
        To thee I turn with swimming eyes;
    Where is that soul of freedom fled?
    Immingled with the mighty dead!
        Beneath the hallow'd turf where Wallace lies!
    Hear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of death!
        Ye babbling winds, in silence sweep;
        Disturb not ye the hero's sleep,
    Nor give the coward secret breath.
        Is this the power in freedom's war,
        That wont to bid the battle rage?
    Behold that eye which shot immortal hate,
        Crushing the despot's proudest bearing!

Robert Burns

Verses To A Young Lady.

    Here, where the Scottish muse immortal lives,
        In sacred strains and tuneful numbers join'd,
    Accept the gift; tho' humble he who gives,
        Rich is the tribute of the grateful mind.

    So may no ruffian feeling in thy breast,
        Discordant jar thy bosom-chords among;
    But peace attune thy gentle soul to rest,
        Or love ecstatic wake his seraph song.

    Or pity's notes in luxury of tears,
        As modest want the tale of woe reveals;
    While conscious virtue all the strain endears,
        And heaven-born piety her sanction seals.

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

A Bard's Epitaph.

    Is there a whim-inspired fool,
    Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule,
    Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool,
        Let him draw near;
    And owre this grassy heap sing dool,
        And drap a tear.

    Is there a bard of rustic song,
    Who, noteless, steals the crowds among,
    That weekly this area throng,
        O, pass not by!
    But with a frater-feeling strong,
        Here heave a sigh.

    Is there a man, whose judgment clear,
    Can others teach the course to steer,
    Yet runs, himself, life's mad career,
        Wild as the wave;
    Here pause, and, through the starting tear,
        Survey this grave.

    The poor inhabitant below
    Was quick to learn and wise to know,
    And keen...

Robert Burns