Type Archives - Page 18 of 56

Come, Let Me Take Thee To My Breast

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

Come, let me take thee to my breast, And pledge we ne'er shall sunder; And I shall spurn as vilest dust The world's wealth and grandeur: And do I hear my Jeanie own That equal transports move her? I ask for dearest life alone, That I may live to love her. Thus, in my arms,

Complimentary Epigram On Maria Riddell

ed mccabe2018-11-12T18:28:06+00:001793, Epigram, Robert Burns Poems, Type, Year|

"Praise Woman still," his lordship roars, "Deserv'd ornot, nomatter?" Butthee, whom all my soul adores, Ev'n Flattery cannot flatter: Maria, all my thought and dream, Inspires my vocal shell; The more I praise my lovely theme, The more the truth I tell.

Dainty Davie

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

Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers, To deck her gay, green-spreading bowers; And now comes in the happy hours, To wander wi' my Davie. Chorus.-Meet me on the warlockknowe, Dainty Davie, Dainty Davie; There I'll spend the day wi' you, My ain dear Dainty Davie. The crystal waters round us fa', The merry birds

Deluded Swain, The Pleasure

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

Deluded swain, the pleasure The fickle Fair can give thee, Is but a fairy treasure, Thy hopes will soon deceive thee: The billows on the ocean, The breezes idly roaming, The cloud's uncertain motion, They are buttypes of Woman. O art thou not asham'd To doat upon a feature? If Man thou wouldst be nam'd,

Down The Burn, Davie

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

As down the burnthey took their way, And thro' the flowery dale; His cheek to hers he aftdid lay, And love was aye the tale: With "Mary, when shall we return, Sicpleasure to renew?" Quoth Mary-"Love, I like the burn, And aye shall follow you."

Epigram On The Laird Of Laggan

ed mccabe2018-11-12T18:28:06+00:001793, Epigram, Robert Burns Poems, Type, Year|

When Morine, deceas'd, to the Devil went down, 'Twas nothing would serve him but Satan's own crown; "Thy fool's head," quoth Satan, "that crown shall wear never, I grant thou'rt as wicked, butnot quite so clever."

Epigrams Against The Earl Of Galloway

ed mccabe2018-11-12T18:28:06+00:001793, Epigram, Robert Burns Poems, Type, Year|

What dost thou in that mansion fair? Flit, Galloway, and find Some narrow, dirty, dungeon cave, The picture of thy mind. No Stewart art thou, Galloway, The Stewarts 'll were brave; Besides, the Stewarts were butfools, Not one of them a knave. Bright ran thy line, O Galloway, Thro' many a far-fam'd sire! So ran

Epitaph On A Lap-Dog Named Echo

ed mccabe2018-11-12T18:28:06+00:001793, Epitaph, Robert Burns Poems, Type, Year|

In wood and wild, ye warbling throng, Your heavy loss deplore; Now, half extinct your powers of song, Sweet Echo is nomore. Ye jarring, screeching things around, Scream your discordant joys; Now, half your dinof tuneless sound With Echo silent lies.