To A Lady, With A Present Of A Pair Of Drinking-Glasses.

    Fair Empress of the Poet's soul,
        And Queen of Poetesses;
    Clarinda, take this little boon,
        This humble pair of glasses.

    And fill them high with generous juice,
        As generous as your mind;
    And pledge me in the generous toast,
        "The whole of human kind!"

    "To those who love us!" second fill;
        But not to those whom we love;
    Lest we love those who love not us!
        A third, "to thee and me, love!"

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

Bess And Her Spinning-Wheel.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Cassillis' Banks.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Louis, What Reck I By Thee.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

On A Wag In Mauchline.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

English

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The Toast.

    Fill me with the rosy-wine,
    Call a toast, a toast divine;
    Give the Poet's darling flame,
    Lovely Jessy be the name;
    Then thou mayest freely boast,
    Thou hast given a peerless toast.

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

Drink To Her.

Drink to her, who long,
    Hath waked the poet's sigh.
The girl, who gave to song
    What gold could never buy.
Oh! woman's heart was made
    For minstrel hands alone;
By other fingers played,
    It yields not half the tone.
Then here's to her, who long
    Hath waked the poet's sigh,
The girl who gave to song
    What gold could never buy.

At Beauty's door of glass,
    When Wealth and Wit once stood,
They asked her 'which might pass?"
    She answered, "he, who could."
With golden key Wealth thought
    To pass--but 'twould not do:
While Wit a diamond brought,
    Which cut his bright way through.
So here's to her, who long
    Hath waked the poet's sigh,
The girl, who gave to song
    What gold could never...

Thomas Moore

Delia. - An Ode.

    Fair the face of orient day,
    Fair the tints of op'ning rose,
    But fairer still my Delia dawns,
    More lovely far her beauty blows.

    Sweet the lark's wild-warbled lay,
    Sweet the tinkling rill to hear;
    But, Delia, more delightful still
    Steal thine accents on mine ear.

    The flow'r-enamoured busy bee
    The rosy banquet loves to sip;
    Sweet the streamlet's limpid lapse
    To the sun-brown'd Arab's lip;

    But, Delia, on thy balmy lips
    Let me, no vagrant insect, rove!
    O, let me steal one liquid kiss!
    For, oh! my soul is parch'd with love.

Robert Burns

To Thomas Moore, Esq.

Here's a health to thee, Bard of Erin!
    To the goblet's brim we will fill;
For all that to life is endearing,
    Thy strains have made dearer still!

Wherever fond woman's eyes eclipse
    The midnight moon's soft ray;
Whenever around dear woman's lips,
    The smiles of affection play:

We will drink to thee, Bard of Erin!
    To the goblet's brim we will fill,
For all that to life is endearing,
    Thy strains have made dearer still!

Wherever the warrior's sword is bound
    With the laurel of victory,
Wherever the patriot's brow is crowned
    With the halo of liberty:

We will drink to thee, Bard of Erin!
    To the goblet's brim we will fill;
For all that to life is endearing
    Thy strains have made dearer still!<...

Frances Anne Kemble

To Robert Graham, Esq., Of Fintray. On Receiving A Favour.

    I call no goddess to inspire my strains,
    A fabled muse may suit a bard that feigns;
    Friend of my life! my ardent spirit burns,
    And all the tribute of my heart returns,
    For boons accorded, goodness ever new,
    The gift still dearer, as the giver, you.

    Thou orb of day! thou other paler light!
    And all ye many sparkling stars of night;
    If aught that giver from my mind efface;
    If I that giver's bounty e'er disgrace;
    Then roll to me, along your wandering spheres,
    Only to number out a villain's years!

Robert Burns