To Ruin.

I.

    All hail! inexorable lord!
    At whose destruction-breathing word,
        The mightiest empires fall!
    Thy cruel, woe-delighted train,
    The ministers of grief and pain,
        A sullen welcome, all!
    With stern-resolv'd, despairing eye,
        I see each aimed dart;
    For one has cut my dearest tie,
        And quivers in my heart.
            Then low'ring and pouring,
                The storm no more I dread;
            Though thick'ning and black'ning,
                Round my devoted head.

II.

    And thou grim pow'r, by life abhorr'd,
    While life a pleasure can afford,
        Oh! hear a wretch's prayer!
    No more I shrink appall'd, afraid;
    I court, I beg thy friendly aid,
        To close this scene of care!
    When shall my soul, in silent peace,
        Resign life's joyless day;
    My weary heart its throbbings cease,
        Cold mould'ring in the clay?
            No fear more, no tear more,
                To stain my lifeless face;
            Enclasped, and grasped
                Within thy cold embrace!

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 Captain Francis Grose.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Last May A Braw Wooer.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Lament, Occasioned By The Unfortunate Issue Of A Friend's Amour.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

The Kirk's Alarm. - A Ballad. (Second Version.)

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

English

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To Robert Graham, Esq., Of Fintray.

    Late crippl'd of an arm, and now a leg,
    About to beg a pass for leave to beg:
    Dull, listless, teas'd, dejected, and deprest,
    (Nature is adverse to a cripple's rest;)
    Will generous Graham list to his Poet's wail?
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    And hear him curse the light he first survey'd,
    And doubly curse the luckless rhyming trade?

    Thou, Nature, partial Nature! I arraign;
    Of thy caprice maternal I complain:
    The lion and the bull thy care have found,
    One shakes the forests, and one spurns the ground:
    Thou giv'st the ass his hide, the snail his shell,
    Th' envenom'd wasp, victorious, guards his cell;
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Robert Burns

Stanzas - On The Same Occasion.

    Why am I loth to leave this earthly scene?
        How I so found it full of pleasing charms?
    Some drops of joy with draughts of ill between:
        Some gleams of sunshine 'mid renewing storms:
    Is it departing pangs my soul alarms?
        Or Death's unlovely, dreary, dark abode?
    For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms;
        I tremble to approach an angry God,
    And justly smart beneath his sin-avenging rod.

    Fain would I say, "Forgive my foul offence!"
        Fain promise never more to disobey;
    But, should my Author health again dispense,
        Again I might desert fair virtue's way:
    Again in folly's path might go astray;
        Again exalt the brute and sink the man;
    Then how should I for heavenly mercy pray,

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

Winter. A Dirge.

    The wintry west extends his blast,
        And hail and rain does blaw;
    Or the stormy north sends driving forth
        The blinding sleet and snaw;
    While tumbling brown, the burn comes down,
        And roars frae bank to brae;
    And bird and beast in covert rest,
        And pass the heartless day.

    "The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast,"^[1]
        The joyless winter day
    Let others fear, to me more dear
        Than all the pride of May:
    The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul,
        My griefs it seems to join;
    The leafless trees my fancy please,
        Their fate resembles mine!

    Thou Power Supreme, whose mighty scheme
        These woes of mine fulfil,
    Here, firm, I rest, they must be ...

Robert Burns

Despondency. - An Ode.

I.

    Oppress'd with grief, oppress'd with care,
    A burden more than I can bear,
        I set me down and sigh:
    O life! thou art a galling load,
    Along a rough, a weary road,
        To wretches such as I!
    Dim-backward as I cast my view,
        What sick'ning scenes appear!
    What sorrows yet may pierce me thro'
        Too justly I may fear!
            Still caring, despairing,
                Must be my bitter doom;
            My woes here shall close ne'er
                But with the closing tomb!

II.

    Happy, ye sons of busy life,
    Who, equal to the bustling strife,
        No other view regard!
    Ev'n when the wished end's deny'd,
    Yet while the busy means are ply'd,
        They b...

Robert Burns

Ode Sacred To The Memory Of Mrs. Oswald, Of Auchencruive.

    Dweller in yon dungeon dark,
    Hangman of creation, mark!
    Who in widow-weeds appears,
    Laden with unhonoured years,
    Noosing with care a bursting purse,
    Baited with many a deadly curse?

Strophe.

    View the wither'd beldam's face,
    Can thy keen inspection trace
    Aught of Humanity's sweet melting grace?
    Note that eye, 'tis rheum o'erflows,
    Pity's flood there never rose.
    See these hands, ne'er stretch'd to save,
    Hands that took, but never gave.
    Keeper of Mammon's iron chest,
    Lo, there she goes, unpitied and unblest
    She goes, but not to realms of everlasting rest!

Antistrophe.

    Plunderer of armies, lift thine eyes,
    (Awhile forbear, ye tort'ring fiends;)
    S...

Robert Burns