Verses - Written Under The Portrait Of Fergusson, The Poet, In A Copy Of That Author's Works Presented To A Young Lady.

    Curse on ungrateful man, that can be pleas'd,
    And yet can starve the author of the pleasure!
    O thou my elder brother in misfortune,
    By far my elder brother in the muses,
    With tears I pity thy unhappy fate!
    Why is the bard unpitied by the world,
    Yet has so keen a relish of its pleasures?

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

Lines On Mrs. Kemble.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

The Fete Champetre.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

When I Think On The Happy Days.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

O May, Thy Morn.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

English

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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 A Gentleman Whom He Had Offended.

    The friend whom wild from wisdom's way,
        The fumes of wine infuriate send;
    (Not moony madness more astray;)
        Who but deplores that hapless friend?

    Mine was th' insensate frenzied part,
        Ah, why should I such scenes outlive
    Scenes so abhorrent to my heart!
        'Tis thine to pity and forgive.

Robert Burns

On The Author's Father.

    O ye whose cheek the tear of pity stains,
        Draw near with pious rev'rence and attend!
    Here lie the loving husband's dear remains,
        The tender father and the gen'rous friend.
    The pitying heart that felt for human woe;
        The dauntless heart that feared no human pride;
    The friend of man, to vice alone a foe;
        "For ev'n his failings lean'd to virtue's side."

Robert Burns

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?
    (It soothes poor misery, hearkening to her tale,)
    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;
    Thy minions, kings, defend, control, devour,
    In all th' omnipotence of rule and...

Robert Burns

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

Epistle To Major Logan.

    Hail, thairm-inspirin', rattlin' Willie!
    Though fortune's road be rough an' hilly
    To every fiddling, rhyming billie,
        We never heed,
    But tak' it like the unback'd filly,
        Proud o' her speed.

    When idly goavan whyles we saunter
    Yirr, fancy barks, awa' we canter
    Uphill, down brae, till some mishanter,
        Some black bog-hole,
    Arrests us, then the scathe an' banter
        We're forced to thole.

    Hale be your heart! Hale be your fiddle!
    Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle,
    To cheer you through the weary widdle
        O' this wild warl',
    Until you on a crummock driddle
        A gray-hair'd carl.

    Come wealth, come poortith, late or soon,
    Heaven send your hear...

Robert Burns