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
........
To a Mouse
  _
On Turning Her Up in Her Nest With The Plow
Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie,
O, what a panic's in thy breastie!   _
Thou need na start awa sae hasty, Wi' bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, Wi' murd'ring pattle!
  _
I'm truly sorry man's dominion
Has broken nature's social union,
An' justifies that ill opinion   _
Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,
An' fellow mortal.   _

I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!   _
A daimen icker in a thrave
'S a sma' request;
I'll get a blessin' wi' the lave,   _
An' ne'er miss't!

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!   _
It's silly wa's the winds are strewin'!
An' naething, now, to build a new ane,
O' foggage green!   _
An' bleak December's winds ensuin',
Baith snell an' keen!
  _
Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste,
An' weary winter comin' fast,
An' cozie here, beneath the blast,   _
Thou thought to dwell Ñ
Till crash! the cruel coulter past
Out thro' thy cell.   _

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble,
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!   _
Now thou's turned out, for a' thy trouble,
But house or hald,
To thole the winter's sleety dribble,   _
And cranreuch cauld!

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,   _
In proving foresight may be vain;
The best-laid plans o' mice an' men
Gang aft agley,   _
An' leave us nought but grief and pain
For promised joy!
  _
Still thou art blest, compared wi' me;
The present only toucheth thee:
But och! I backward cast my ee,   _
On prospects drear!
An' forward, tho' I canna see,
I guess an' fear!
........
To the Wood-Lark
  _
O stay, sweet warbling wood-lark, stay,
Nor quit for me the trembling spray,
A hapless lover courts thy lay, Thy soothing fond complaining.   _

Again, again that tender part,
That I may catch thy melting art,   _
For surely that wad touch her heart, Wha kills me wi' disdaining.

Say, was thy little mate unkind,   _
And heard thee as the careless wind?
Oh, nocht but lobve and sorrow join'd, Sic notes o' woe could wauken.
  _
Thou tells o' never-ending care;
O' speechless grief, and dark despair;
For pity's sake, sweet bird, nae mair! Or my poor heart is broken!