Streams That Glide In Orient Plains.

Tune - "Morag."


I.

    Streams that glide in orient plains,
    Never bound by winter's chains;
        Glowing here on golden sands,
    There commix'd with foulest stains
        From tyranny's empurpled bands;
    These, their richly gleaming waves,
    I leave to tyrants and their slaves;
    Give me the stream that sweetly laves
        The banks by Castle-Gordon.

II.

    Spicy forests, ever gay,
    Shading from the burning ray,
        Hapless wretches sold to toil,
        Or the ruthless native's way,
            Bent on slaughter, blood, and spoil:
    Woods that ever verdant wave,
    I leave the tyrant and the slave,
    Give me the groves that lofty brave
        The storms by Castle-Gordon.

III.

    Wildly here without control,
    Nature reigns and rules the whole;
        In that sober pensive mood,
    Dearest to the feeling soul,
        She plants the forest, pours the flood;
    Life's poor day I'll musing rave,
    And find at night a sheltering cave,
    Where waters flow and wild woods wave,
            By bonnie Castle-Gordon.

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

Braving Angry Winter's Storms.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Frae The Friends And Land I Love.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

The Lovely Lass Of Inverness.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Duncan Gray.

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.

The Gloomy Night.

Tune - "Roslin Castle."


I.

    The gloomy night is gath'ring fast,
    Loud roars the wild inconstant blast;
    Yon murky cloud is foul with rain,
    I see it driving o'er the plain;
    The hunter now has left the moor,
    The scatter'd coveys meet secure;
    While here I wander, prest with care,
    Along the lonely banks of Ayr.

II.

    The Autumn mourns her rip'ning corn,
    By early Winter's ravage torn;
    Across her placid, azure sky,
    She sees the scowling tempest fly:
    Chill runs my blood to hear it rave,
    I think upon the stormy wave,
    Where many a danger I must dare,
    Far from the bonnie banks of Ayr.

III.

    'Tis not the surging billow's roar,
    'Tis n...

Robert Burns

Caledonia.

Tune - "Humours of Glen."


I.

    Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon,
        Where bright-beaming summers exalt the perfume;
    Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green brockan,
        Wi' the burn stealing under the lang yellow broom:
    Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers,
        Where the blue-bell and gowan lurk lowly unseen;
    For there, lightly tripping amang the wild flowers,
        A listening the linnet, aft wanders my Jean.

II.

    Tho' rich is the breeze in their gay sunny valleys,
        And cauld CALEDONIA'S blast on the wave;
    Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the proud palace,
        What are they? - The haunt of the tyrant and slave!
    The slave's spicy forests, and...

Robert Burns

Now Spring Has Clad The Grove In Green. To Mr. Cunningham.

I.

    Now spring has clad the grove in green,
        And strew'd the lea wi' flowers:
    The furrow'd waving corn is seen
        Rejoice in fostering showers;
    While ilka thing in nature join
        Their sorrows to forego,
    O why thus all alone are mine
        The weary steps of woe?

II.

    The trout within yon wimpling burn
        Glides swift, a silver dart,
    And safe beneath the shady thorn
        Defies the angler's art:
    My life was ance that careless stream,
        That wanton trout was I;
    But love, wi' unrelenting beam,
        Has scorch'd my fountains dry.

III.

    The little flow'ret's peaceful lot,
        In yonder cliff that grows,
    Which, save the linnet's flight...

Robert Burns

Chloris.

Air - "My lodging is on the cold ground."


I.

    My Chloris, mark how green the groves,
        The primrose banks how fair:
    The balmy gales awake the flowers,
        And wave thy flaxen hair.

II.

    The lav'rock shuns the palace gay,
        And o'er the cottage sings;
    For nature smiles as sweet, I ween,
        To shepherds as to kings

III.

    Let minstrels sweep the skilfu' string
        In lordly lighted ha':
    The shepherd stops his simple reed,
        Blythe, in the birken shaw.

IV.

    The princely revel may survey
        Our rustic dance wi' scorn;
    But are their hearts as light as ours,
        Beneath the milk-white thorn?

V.

    ...

Robert Burns

The Humble Petition Of Bruar Water To The Noble Duke Of Athole.

I.

    My Lord, I know your noble ear
        Woe ne'er assails in vain;
    Embolden'd thus, I beg you'll hear
        Your humble slave complain,
    How saucy Phoebus' scorching beams
        In flaming summer-pride,
    Dry-withering, waste my foamy streams,
        And drink my crystal tide.

II.

    The lightly-jumpin' glowrin' trouts,
        That thro' my waters play,
    If, in their random, wanton spouts,
        They near the margin stray;
    If, hapless chance! they linger lang,
        I'm scorching up so shallow,
    They're left the whitening stanes amang,
        In gasping death to wallow.

III.

    Last day I grat wi' spite and teen,
        As Poet Burns came by,
    That to a bard I shou...

Robert Burns

By Allan Stream.

I.

    By Allan stream I chanced to rove
        While Phoebus sank beyond Benledi;
    The winds were whispering through the grove,
        The yellow corn was waving ready;
    I listened to a lover's sang,
        And thought on youthfu' pleasures mony:
    And aye the wild wood echoes rang
        O dearly do I lo'e thee, Annie!

II.

    O happy be the woodbine bower,
        Nae nightly bogle make it eerie;
    Nor ever sorrow stain the hour,
        The place and time I met my dearie!
    Her head upon my throbbing breast,
        She, sinking, said, "I'm thine for ever?"
    While mony a kiss the seal imprest,
        The sacred vow, we ne'er should sever.

III.

    The haunt o' Spring's the primrose brae,

Robert Burns