Welcome to our Robert Burns poems

Robert Bunrs Poems

Robert Burns poems are know the world over. As Scotland’s national bard his poetry and songs have been celebrated and argued about for over 200 years. He covered many subjects: love, politics, religion, nature and death amongst others. His gentle (and not so gentle) mocking ways took down pomposity and arrogance in extablished hierarchical institutions.

Initially feted by the Edinburgh literary elite his support for the principles of the French revolution saw him shunned and he returned to the west of Scotland where he died at a young age.

We hope you enjoy the Robert Burns poems here and delve into them from time to time. Human nature doesn’t change; the classics can still seem fresh to us today.

We encourage to explore these wonderful poems, particularly around his birthday on the 25th January but also all year round. Dinnae be a sleekit wee beastie wi’ his works……

Robert Bruce’s March To Bannockburn

ed mccabe2018-11-12T18:28:13+00:001793, Poem, Robert Burns Poems, Type, Year|

Scots, wha haewi' Wallace bled, Scots, whamBruce has aftenled, Welcome to your gory bed, Or to Victorie! Now's the day, and now's the hour; See the front o'battle lour; See approach proud Edward's power- Chains and Slaverie! Wha will be a traitor knave? Wha can fill a coward's grave? Whasaebase as be a Slave? Let

Sonnet Written On The Author’s Birthday

ed mccabe2018-11-12T18:28:25+00:001793, Robert Burns Poems, Sonnet, Type, Year|

Sing on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough, Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain, See aged Winter, 'mid his surly reign, At thy blythe carol, clears his furrowed brow. So in lone Poverty's dominion drear, Sits meek Content with light, unanxious heart; Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part, Nor asks if

Thanksgiving For A National Victory

ed mccabe2018-11-12T18:28:13+00:001793, Poem, Robert Burns Poems, Type, Year|

Ye hypocrites! are these your pranks? To murder men and give God thanks! Desist, for shame!-proceed nofurther; God won't accept your thanks for Murther!

The Last Time I Came O’er The Moor

ed mccabe2018-11-12T18:28:13+00:001793, Poem, Robert Burns Poems, Type, Year|

The last time I came o'er the moor, And left Maria's dwelling, What throes, what tortures passing cure, Were in my bosom swelling: Condemn'd to see my rival's reign, While I in secret languish; To feel a fire in every vein, Yet dare not speak my anguish. Love's veriest wretch, despairing, I Fain, fain, my

Address Spoken by Miss Fontenelle on her Benefit Night, December 4th, 1793, at the Theatre, Dumfries.

ed mccabe2018-11-12T18:28:05+00:001793, Address, Robert Burns Poems, Type, Year|

Still anxious to secure your partial favour, And not less anxious, sure, this night, than ever, A Prologue, Epilogue, orsome such matter, 'Twould vamp my bill, said I, if nothing better; So sought a poet, roosted near the skies, Told him I came to feast my curious eyes; Said, nothing like his works was ever

Behold The Hour, The Boat Arrive

ed mccabe2018-11-12T18:28:07+00:001793, Poem, Robert Burns Poems, Type, Year|

Behold the hour, the boat arrive; Thou goest, the darling of my heart; Sever'd from thee, can I survive, ButFate has will'd and we must part. I'll often greetthe surging swell, Yondistant Isle will often hail: "E'en here I took the last farewell; There, latest mark'd her vanish'd sail." Along the solitary shore, While flitting

Blythe Hae I been On Yon Hill

ed mccabe2018-11-12T18:28:18+00:001793, Robert Burns Poems, Song, Type, Year|

Blythe haeI been on yonhill, As the lambs before me; Careless ilka thought and free, As the breeze flew o'er me; Now naelanger sport and play, Mirth orsang can please me; Lesley is saefair and coy, Care and anguish seize me. Heavy, heavy is the task, Hopeless love declaring; Trembling, I downochtbutglow'r, Sighing, dumb despairing!

Bonie Jean-A Ballad

ed mccabe2018-11-12T18:28:18+00:001793, Robert Burns Poems, Song, Type, Year|

There was a lass, and she was fair, At kirkor market to be seen; When a' our fairest maids were met, The fairest maid was bonie Jean. And aye she wrought her mammie's wark, And aye she sang saemerrilie; The blythest bird upon the bush Had ne'er a lighter heart than she. But hawks will

Braw Lads O’ Galla Water

ed mccabe2018-11-12T18:28:10+00:001793, Poem, Robert Burns Poems, Type, Year|

Braw, brawlads on Yarrow-braes, They rove amangthe blooming heather; But Yarrow braes, nor Ettrick shaws Can match the lads o' Galla Water. Butthere is ane, a secret ane, Aboonthem a'I loe him better; And I'll be his, and he'll be mine, The bonielad o' Galla Water. Altho' his daddie was nae laird, And tho' I

By Allan Stream

ed mccabe2018-11-12T18:28:18+00:001793, Robert Burns Poems, Song, Type, Year|

By Allan stream I chanc'd to rove, While Phoebus sank beyond Benledi; The winds are whispering thro' the grove, The yellow corn was waving ready: I listen'd to a lover's sang, An'thought on youthfu' pleasures mony; And aye the wild-wood echoes rang- "O, dearly do I love thee, Annie! "O, happy be the woodbine bower,

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