Thickest Night, O'Erhang My Dwelling.

Tune - "Strathallan's Lament."


I.

    Thickest night, surround my dwelling!
        Howling tempests, o'er me rave!
    Turbid torrents, wintry swelling,
        Roaring by my lonely cave!

II.

    Crystal streamlets gently flowing,
        Busy haunts of base mankind,
    Western breezes softly blowing,
        Suit not my distracted mind.

III.

    In the cause of Right engaged,
        Wrongs injurious to redress,
    Honour's war we strongly waged,
        But the heavens denied success.

IV.

    Ruin's wheel has driven o'er us,
        Not a hope that dare attend,
    The wild world is all before us,
        But a world without a friend.

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

On Elphinston's Translations. Of Martial's Epigrams.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Address, Spoken By Miss Fontenelle On Her Benefit Night.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

O May, Thy Morn.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Last May A Braw Wooer.

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

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

On The Death Of Robert Dundas, Esq., Of Arniston, Late Lord President Of The Court Of Session.

    Lone on the bleaky hills the straying flocks
    Shun the fierce storms among the sheltering rocks;
    Down from the rivulets, red with dashing rains,
    The gathering floods burst o'er the distant plains;
    Beneath the blasts the leafless forests groan;
    The hollow caves return a sullen moan.

    Ye hills, ye plains, ye forests and ye caves,
    Ye howling winds, and wintry swelling waves!
    Unheard, unseen, by human ear or eye,
    Sad to your sympathetic scenes I fly;
    Where to the whistling blast and waters' roar
    Pale Scotia's recent wound I may deplore.

    O heavy loss, thy country ill could bear!
    A loss these evil days can ne'er repair!
    Justice, the high vicegerent of her God,
    Her doubtful balance ey'd, and sway'd ...

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

A Vision.

    As I stood by yon roofless tower,
        Where the wa'-flower scents the dewy air,
    Where th' howlet mourns in her ivy bower
        And tells the midnight moon her care;

    The winds were laid, the air was still,
        The Stars they shot along the sky;
    The fox was howling on the hill,
        And the distant echoing glens reply.

    The stream, adown its hazelly path,
        Was rushing by the ruin'd wa's,
    Hasting to join the sweeping Nith,^[1]
        Whose distant roaring swells and fa's.

    The cauld blue north was streaming forth
        Her lights, wi' hissing eerie din;
    Athort the lift they start and shift,
        Like fortune's favours, tint as win.

    By heedless chance I turn'd mine eyes,<...

Robert Burns

O Tell Na Me O' Wind And Rain.

O Tell Na Me O' Wind And Rain.



I.

    O tell na me o' wind and rain,
    Upbraid na me wi' cauld disdain!
    Gae back the gate ye cam again,
        I winna let you in, jo.
            I tell you now this ae night,
                This ae, ae, ae night,
            And ance for a' this ae night,
                I winna let you in, jo!

II.

    The snellest blast, at mirkest hours,
    That round the pathless wand'rer pours,
    Is nocht to what poor she endures,
        That's trusted faithless man, jo.

III.

    The sweetest flower that deck'd the mead,
    Now trodden like the vilest weed:
    Let simple maid the lesson read,
        The weird may be her ain, jo.

IV.

    The ...

Robert Burns