All Poems
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543. SongNews, lassies, news
© Robert Burns
THERES news, lassies, news,
Gude news Ive to tell!
Theres a boatfu o lads
Come to our town to sell.
"Choose You This Day Whom Ye Will Serve"
© Oliver Wendell Holmes
YES, tyrants, you hate us, and fear while you hate
The self-ruling, chain-breaking, throne-shaking State!
The night-birds dread morning,--your instinct is true,--
The day-star of Freedom brings midnight for you!
21. Fickle Fortune: A Fragment
© Robert Burns
THOUGH fickle Fortune has deceived me,
She pormisd fair and performd but ill;
Of mistress, friends, and wealth bereavd me,
Yet I bear a heart shall support me still.
521. Inscription for an Alter of Independence
© Robert Burns
THOU of an independent mind,
With soul resolvd, with soul resignd;
Prepard Powers proudest frown to brave,
Who wilt not be, nor have a slave;
345. SongFrae the friends and land I love
© Robert Burns
FRAE the friends and land I love,
Drivn by Fortunes felly spite;
Frae my best belovd I rove,
Never mair to taste delight:
The Crying Of The Earth
© Arthur Symons
I hear the melancholy crying of birds in the night
Over the long brown wrinkled fields that lie
As far along as the starless roots of the sky;
I hear them crying from the water out of sight,
230. The Fête Champêtre
© Robert Burns
Note 1. James Boswell, the biographer of Dr. Johnson. [back]
Note 2. Sir John Whitefoord, then residing at Cloncaird or Glencaird. [back]
Note 3. William Cunninghame, Esq., of Annbank and Enterkin. [back]
180. Written by Somebody on the Window of an Inn at Stirling
© Robert Burns
HERE Stuarts once in glory reigned,
And laws for Scotlands weal ordained;
But now unroofd their palace stands,
Their sceptres swayd by other hands;
The Writer's Hand
© David Gascoyne
What is your want, perpetual invalid
Whose fist is always beating on my breast's
368. SongScroggam, my dearie
© Robert Burns
THERE was a wife wonnd in Cockpen,
Scroggam;
She brewd gude ale for gentlemen;
Sing auld Cowl lay ye down by me,
Scroggam, my dearie, ruffum.
Old Years And New
© Edgar Albert Guest
Old years and new years, all blended into one,
The best of what there is to be, the best of what is gone--
Let's bury all the failures in the dim and dusty past
And keep the smiles of friendship and laughter to the last.
Ode to Simplicity
© William Taylor Collins
O thou, by Nature taught
To breathe her genuine thought
In numbers warmly pure, and sweetly strong;
Who first on mountains wild,
In Fancy, loveliest child,
Thy babe, or Pleasure's, nurs'd the pow'rs of song!
166. Epitaph for William Nicol, High School, Edinburgh
© Robert Burns
YE maggots, feed on Nicols brain,
For few sic feasts youve gotten;
And fix your claws in Nicols heart,
For deil a bit ots rotten.
The Conversion of Aurelian McGoggin
© Rudyard Kipling
Ride with an idle whip, ride with an unused heel,
But, once in a way, there will come a day
When the colt must be taught to feel
The lash that falls, and the curb that galls, and the sting
of the rowelled steel.
333. SongLovely Polly Stewart
© Robert Burns
Chorus.O lovely Polly Stewart,
O charming Polly Stewart,
Theres neer a flower that blooms in May,
Thats half so fair as thou art!
The Robe of Grass
© John Le Gay Brereton
HERE lies the woven garb he wore
Of grass he gathered by the shore
65. SongRantin, Rovin Robin
© Robert Burns
THERE 1 was a lad was born in Kyle,
But whatna day o whatna style,
I doubt its hardly worth the while
To be sae nice wi Robin.
In An Underground Dressing Station
© Siegfried Sassoon
He gripped the stretcher; stiffened; glared; and screamed,
"O put my leg down, doctor, do!" (He'd got
A bullet in his ankle; and he'd been shot
Horribly through the guts.) The surgeon seemed
So kind and gentle, saying, above that crying,
"You must keep still, my lad." But he was dying.
263. SongThe Gardener wi his Paidle
© Robert Burns
WHEN rosy May comes in wi flowers,
To deck her gay, green-spreading bowers,
Then busy, busy are his hours,
The Gardner wi his paidle.
The Nightingale : A Conversation Poem
© Samuel Taylor Coleridge
No cloud, no relique of the sunken day
Distinguishes the West, no long thin slip
Of sullen light, no obscure trembling hues.
Come, we will rest on this old mossy bridge!
