30 Poems of Robert Burns

A Man's A Man For A' That
Address To The Tooth-Ache
Again Rejoicing Nature Sees
Anna
Craigieburn Wood
Despondency Ñ An Ode
Handsome Nell
Here's A Health To Them That's Awa
Highland Mary
Lament Of Mary, Queen Of Scots, On The Approach Of Spring
Mary Morison
My Nannie, O
Now Spring Has Clad The Grove In Green
O, Were My Love
On a Bank of Flowers
Peggy
Scotch Drink
Scots Wha Hae
She Says She Lo'es Me Best Of A'
The Banks O' Doon
The Battle of Sherramuir
The Birks Of Aberfeldie
The Lass Of Cessnock Banks
The Rigs O' Barley
The Wounded Hare
Thou Lingering Star
To A Kiss
To A Louse
To a Mouse
To the Wood-Lark
........
Craigieburn Wood
  _
Sweet fa's the eve on Craigieburn, And blythe awakens the morrow,
But a' the pride o' spring's return Can yield me nocht but sorrow.
  _
I see the flowers and spreading trees, I hear the wild birds singing;
But what a weary wight can please, And care his bosom wringing?
  _
Fain, fain would I my griefs impart, Yet darena for your anger'
But secret love will break my heart, If I conceal it langer.
  _
If thou refuse to pity me, If thou shalt love anither,
When yon green leaves fade frae the tree, Around my grave they'll wither.
........
Despondency Ñ An Ode
  _
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!   _

Happy, ye sons of busy life,
Who, equal to the bustling strife, No other view regard!   _
Ev'n when the wished end's denied,
Yet while the busy means are plied, They bring their own reward:
Whilst I, a hope-abandon'd wight, Unfitted with an aim,   _
Meet ev'ry sad returning night, And joyless morn the same; You, bustling, and justling, Forget each grief and pain; I, listless, yet restless, Find every prospect vain.

How blest the Solitary's lot,   _
Who, all-forgetting, all-forgot, Within his humble cell,
The cavern wild with tangling roots,
Sits o'er his newly-gather'd fruits, Beside his crystal well!   _
Or, haply, to his ev'ning thought, By unfrequented stream,
The ways of men are distant brought, A faint collected dream: While praising, and raising His thoughts to heav'n on high, As wand'ring, meand'ring, He views the solemn sky.
  _
Than I, no lonely hermit plac'd
Where never human footstep trac'd, Less fit to play the part;
The lucky moment to improve,   _
And just to stop, and just to move, With self-respecting art:
But ah! those pleasures, loves, and joys, Which I too keenly taste,
The Solitary can despise, Can want, and yet be blest! He needs not, he heeds not, Or human love or hate, Whilst I here must cry here, At perfidy ingrate!   _

Oh! enviable, early days,
When dancing thoughtless pleasure's maze, To care, to guilt unknown!   _
How ill exchang'd for riper times,
To feel the follies, or the crimes Of others, or my own !
Ye tiny elves that guiltless sport Like linnets in the bush,   _
Ye little know the ills ye court, When manhood is your wish! The losses, the crosses, That active man engage The fears all, the tears all, Of dim-declining age!
........
Handsome Nell
  _
O, once I lov'd a bonnie lass, Aye, and I love her still;
And whilst that virtue warms my breast I'll love my handsome Nell.
  _
As bonnie lasses I hae seen, And mony full as braw,
But for a modest gracefu' mien The like I never saw.
  _
A bonnie lass, I will confess, Is pleasant to the ee,
But without some letter qualities She's no a lass for me.
  _
But Nellie's looks are blithe and sweet, And what is best of a'
Her reputation is complete, And fair without a flaw.
  _
She dresses aye sae clean and neat,
Both decent and genteel;
And then there's something in her gait   _
Gars ony dress look weel.

A gaudy dress and gentle air   _
May slightly touch the heart,
But it's innocence and modesty
That polishes the dart.   _

'Tis this in Nelly pleases me,
'Tis this enchants my soul   _
For absolutely in my breast
She reigns without control.
........
Here's A Health To Them That's Awa
  _
Here's a health to them that's awa, Here's a health to them that's awa
And wha winna wish guid luck to our cause, May never guid luck be their fa'!
It's guid to be merry and wise, It's guid to be honest and true,   _
It's guid to support Caledonia's cause And bide by the buff and the blue.

Here's a health to them that's awa, Here's a health to them that's awa!   _
Here's a health to Charlie, the chief o' the clan, Altho that his band be sma'!
May Liberty meet wi success, May Prudence protect her frae evil!
May tyrants and Tyranny tine i' the mist And wander their way to the Devil!   _

Here's a health to them that's awa, Here's a health to them that's awa;
Here's a health to Tammie, the Norlan' laddie, That lives at the lug o' the Law!   _
Here's freedom to thern that wad read, Here's freedom to them that would write!
There's nane ever fear'd that the truth should be heard, But they whom the truth would indite!
  _
Here's a health to them that's awa, An here's to them that's awa!
Here's to Maitland and Wycombe! let wha does na like 'em Be built in a hole in the wa'!
Here's timmer that's red at the heart, Here's fruit that is sound at the core,   _
And may he that wad turn the buff and blue coat Be turn'd to the back o' the door!

Here's a health to them that's awa, Here's a health to them that's awa,   _
Here's Chieftain M'Leod, a chieftain worth gowd, Tho' bred amang mountains o' snaw!
Here's friends on baith sides o' the Firth, And friends on baith sides o' the Tweed,
And wha wad betray old Albion's right, May they never eat of her bread!
........
Highland Mary
  _
Ye banks, and braes, and streams around
The castle o' Montgomery,
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,   _
Your waters never drumlie!
There Simmer first unfald her robes,
And there the langest tarry:   _
For there I took the last Fareweel
O' my sweet Highland Mary.
  _
How sweetly bloom'd the gay, green birk,
How rich the hawthorn's blossom;
As underneath their fragrant shade,   _
I clasp'd her to my bosom!
The golden Hours, on angel wings,
Flew o'er me and my Dearie;   _
For dear to me as light and life
Was my sweet Highland Mary.
  _
Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace,
Our parting was fu' tender;
And pledging aft to meet again,   _
We tore oursels asunder:
But Oh, fell Death's untimely frost,
That nipt my Flower sae early!   _
Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay,
That wraps my Highland Mary!
  _
O pale, pale now, those rosy lips
I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly!
And clos'd for ay, the sparkling glance,   _
That dwalt on me sae kindly!
And mouldering now in silent dust,
That heart that lo'ed me dearly!   _
But still within my bosom's core
Shall live my Highland Mary.
........
Lament Of Mary, Queen Of Scots, On The Approach Of Spring
  _
Now nature hangs her mantle green On every blooming tree,
And spreads her sheets o' daisies white Out o'er the grassy lea:
Now Phoebus cheers the crystal streams, And glads the azure skies;   _
But nought can glad the weary wight That fast in durance lies.

Now laverocks wake the merry morn,   _
Aloft on dewy wing;
The merle, in his noontide bow'r,
Makes woodland echoes ring;   _
The mavis mild wi' mony a note,
Sings drowsy day to rest:
In love and freedom they rejoice,   _
Wi' care nor thrall opprest.

Now blooms the lily by the bank,   _
The primrose down the brae;
The hawthorn budding in the glen,
And milk-white is the slae:   _
The meanest hind in fair Scotland
May rove their weet amang;
But I, the Queen of a' Scotland,   _
Maun lie in prison strang.

I was the Queen o' bonnie France,   _
Where happy I hae been;
Fu' lightly rase I in the morn,
As blythe lay down at e'en:   _
And I'm the overeign of Scotland,
And mony a traitor there;
Yet here I lie in foreign bands,   _
And never-ending care.

But a for thee, thou false woman,   _
My sister and my fae
Grim vengeance yet shall whet a word
That thro' thy soul shall gae:   _
The weeping blood in woman's breast
Was never known to thee;
Nor th' balm that drap on wound of woe   _
Frae woman's pitying ee.

My son! my son! may kinder stars   _
Upon thy fortune shine;
And may those pleasures gild thy reign,
That ne'er wad blink on mine!   _
God keep thee frae thy mother's faes,
Or turn their hearts to thee:
And where thou meet'st thy mother's friend,   _
Remember him for me!

O! soon, to me, may summer-suns   _
Nae mair light up the morn!
Nae mair, to me, the autumn winds
Wave o'er the yellow corn!   _
And in the narrow house o' death
Let winter round me rave;
And the next flow'rs that deck the spring   _
Bloom on my peaceful grave!