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Best Famous Robert Burns Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Robert Burns poems. This is a select list of the best famous Robert Burns poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Robert Burns poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of robert burns poems.

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Written by Robert Burns | |

A Red Red Rose

O, my Luve's like a red, red rose,
That's newly sprung in June.
O, my Luve's like a melodie That's sweetly play'd in tune.
As fair as thou, my bonnie lass, So deep in luve am I; And I will love thee still, my dear, Till a' the seas gang dry.
Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, And the rocks melt wi' the sun: I will love thess till, my dear, While the sands o' life shall run: And fare thee well, my only luve! And fare thee weel, a while! And I will come again, my luve, Tho' it ware ten thousand mile.

Written by Robert Burns | |

To a Mouse

Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, 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' never miss't!

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
Its silly wa's the win's are strewin!
An' naething, now, to big a new ane,
          O' foggage green!
An' bleak December's win's 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,
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, An' cranreuch cauld! But Mousie, thou art no thy lane, In proving foresight may be vain: The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men Gang aft a-gley, An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain For promised joy! Still thou art blest, compared wi' me! The present only toucheth thee: But och! I backward cast my e'e On prospects drear! An' forward, tho I canna see, I guess an' fear!

Written by Edwin Arlington Robinson | |

Old King Cole

 In Tilbury Town did Old King Cole 
A wise old age anticipate, 
Desiring, with his pipe and bowl, 
No Khan’s extravagant estate.
No crown annoyed his honest head, No fiddlers three were called or needed; For two disastrous heirs instead Made music more than ever three did.
Bereft of her with whom his life Was harmony without a flaw, He took no other for a wife, Nor sighed for any that he saw; And if he doubted his two sons, And heirs, Alexis and Evander, He might have been as doubtful once Of Robert Burns and Alexander.
Alexis, in his early youth, Began to steal—from old and young.
Likewise Evander, and the truth Was like a bad taste on his tongue.
Born thieves and liars, their affair Seemed only to be tarred with evil— The most insufferable pair Of scamps that ever cheered the devil.
The world went on, their fame went on, And they went on—from bad to worse; Till, goaded hot with nothing done, And each accoutred with a curse, The friends of Old King Cole, by twos, And fours, and sevens, and elevens, Pronounced unalterable views Of doings that were not of heaven’s.
And having learned again whereby Their baleful zeal had come about, King Cole met many a wrathful eye So kindly that its wrath went out— Or partly out.
Say what they would, He seemed the more to court their candor; But never told what kind of good Was in Alexis and Evander.
And Old King Cole, with many a puff That haloed his urbanity, Would smoke till he had smoked enough, And listen most attentively.
He beamed as with an inward light That had the Lord’s assurance in it; And once a man was there all night, Expecting something every minute.
But whether from too little thought, Or too much fealty to the bowl, A dim reward was all he got For sitting up with Old King Cole.
“Though mine,” the father mused aloud, “Are not the sons I would have chosen, Shall I, less evilly endowed, By their infirmity be frozen? “They’ll have a bad end, I’ll agree, But I was never born to groan; For I can see what I can see, And I’m accordingly alone.
With open heart and open door, I love my friends, I like my neighbors; But if I try to tell you more, Your doubts will overmatch my labors.
“This pipe would never make me calm, This bowl my grief would never drown.
For grief like mine there is no balm In Gilead, or in Tilbury Town.
And if I see what I can see, I know not any way to blind it; Nor more if any way may be For you to grope or fly to find it.
“There may be room for ruin yet, And ashes for a wasted love; Or, like One whom you may forget, I may have meat you know not of.
And if I’d rather live than weep Meanwhile, do you find that surprising? Why, bless my soul, the man’s asleep! That’s good.
The sun will soon be rising.

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Written by William Topaz McGonagall | |

Robert Burns

 Immortal Robert Burns of Ayr,
There's but few poets can with you compare;
Some of your poems and songs are very fine:
To "Mary in Heaven" is most sublime;
And then again in your "Cottar's Saturday Night,"
Your genius there does shine most bright,
As pure as the dewdrops of the night.
Your "Tam O'Shanter" is very fine, Both funny, racy, and divine, From John O'Groats to Dumfries All critics consider it to be a masterpiece, And, also, you have said the same, Therefore they are not to blame.
And in my own opinion both you and they are right, For your genius there does sparkle bright, Which I most solemnly declare To thee, Immortal Bard of Ayr! Your "Banks and Braes of Bonnie Doon" Is sweet and melodious in its tune, And the poetry is moral and sublime, And in my opinion nothing can be more fine.
Your "Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled" Is most beautiful to hear sung or read; For your genius there does shine as bright, Like unto the stars of night Immortal Bard of Ayr! I must conclude my muse To speak in praise of thee does not refuse, For you were a mighty poet, few could with you compare, And also an honour to Scotland, for your genius it is rare.

Written by William Topaz McGonagall | |


 Beautiful city of Glasgow, with your streets so neat and clean,
Your stateley mansions, and beautiful Green!
Likewise your beautiful bridges across the River Clyde,
And on your bonnie banks I would like to reside.
Chorus -- Then away to the west -- to the beautiful west! To the fair city of Glasgow that I like the best, Where the River Clyde rolls on to the sea, And the lark and the blackbird whistle with glee.
'Tis beautiful to see the ships passing to and fro, Laden with goods for the high and the low; So let the beautiful city of Glasgow flourish, And may the inhabitants always find food their bodies to nourish.
Chorus The statue of the Prince of Orange is very grand, Looking terror to the foe, with a truncheon in his hand, And well mounted on a noble steed, which stands in the Trongate, And holding up its foreleg, I'm sure it looks first-rate.
Chorus Then there's the Duke of Wellington's statue in Royal Exchange Square -- It is a beautiful statue I without fear declare, Besides inspiring and most magnificent to view, Because he made the French fly at the battle of Waterloo.
Chorus And as for the statue of Sir Walter Scott that stands in George Square, It is a handsome statue -- few with it can compare, And most elegant to be seen, And close beside it stands the statue of Her Majesty the Queen.
Chorus And then there's the statue of Robert Burns in George Square, And the treatment he received when living was very unfair; Now, when he's dead, Scotland's sons for him do mourn, But, alas! unto them he can never return.
Chorus Then as for Kelvin Grove, it is most lovely to be seen With its beautiful flowers and trees so green, And a magnificent water-fountain spouting up very high, Where the people can quench their thirst when they feel dry.
Chorus Beautiful city of Glasgow, I now conclude my muse, And to write in praise of thee my pen does not refuse; And, without fear of contradiction, I will venture to say You are the second grandest city in Scotland at the present day!

Written by Robert Burns | |

124. Motto prefixed to the Author’s first Publication

 THE SIMPLE Bard, unbroke by rules of art,
He pours the wild effusions of the heart;
And if inspir’d ’tis Nature’s pow’rs inspire;
Her’s all the melting thrill, and her’s the kindling fire.

Written by Robert Burns | |

135. Epigram on Rough Roads

 I’M now arrived—thanks to the gods!—
 Thro’ pathways rough and muddy,
A certain sign that makin roads
 Is no this people’s study:
Altho’ Im not wi’ Scripture cram’d,
 I’m sure the Bible says
That heedless sinners shall be damn’d,
 Unless they mend their ways.

Written by Robert Burns | |

Coming Through The Rye

 Coming thro' the rye, poor body,
Coming thro' the rye,
She draiglet a' her petticoatie
Coming thro' the rye.
O, Jenny's a' wat, poor body; Jenny's seldom dry; She draiglet a' her petticoatie Coming thro' the rye.
Gin a body meet a body Coming thro' the rye, Gin a body kiss a body— Need a body cry? Gin a body meet a body Coming thro' the glen, Gin a body kiss a body— Need the warld ken?

Written by Robert Burns | |

253. Rhyming Reply to a Note from Captain Riddell

 DEAR SIR, at ony time or tide,
I’d rather sit wi’ you than ride,
 Though ’twere wi’ royal Geordie:
And trowth, your kindness, soon and late,
Aft gars me to mysel’ look blate—
 The Lord in Heav’n reward ye!R.

Written by Robert Burns | |

179. To Miss Ferrier enclosing Elegy on Sir J. H. Blair

 NAE heathen name shall I prefix,
 Frae Pindus or Parnassus;
Auld Reekie dings them a’ to sticks,
 For rhyme-inspiring lasses.
Jove’s tunefu’ dochters three times three Made Homer deep their debtor; But, gien the body half an e’e, Nine Ferriers wad done better! Last day my mind was in a bog, Down George’s Street I stoited; A creeping cauld prosaic fog My very sense doited.
Do what I dought to set her free, My saul lay in the mire; Ye turned a neuk—I saw your e’e— She took the wing like fire! The mournfu’ sang I here enclose, In gratitude I send you, And pray, in rhyme as weel as prose, A’ gude things may attend you!

Written by Robert Burns | |

175. Epigram to Miss Jean Scott

 O HAD each Scot of ancient times
 Been, Jeanie Scott, as thou art;
The bravest heart on English ground
 Had yielded like a coward.

Written by Robert Burns | |

Ye Banks And Braes OBonnie Doon

 Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon,
How can ye bloom sae fair!
How can ye chant, ye little birds,
And I sae fu' o' care!

Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird
That sings upon the bough;
Thou minds me o' the happy days
When my fause Luve was true.
Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird That sings beside thy mate; For sae I sat, and sae I sang, And wist na o' my fate.
Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon To see the woodbine twine, And ilka bird sang o' its love; And sae did I o' mine.
Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose Frae aff its thorny tree; And my fause luver staw the rose, But left the thorn wi' me.

Written by Robert Burns | |

341. Song—My Bonie Bell

 THE SMILING Spring comes in rejoicing,
 And surly Winter grimly flies;
Now crystal clear are the falling waters,
 And bonie blue are the sunny skies.
Fresh o’er the mountains breaks forth the morning, The ev’ning gilds the ocean’s swell; All creatures joy in the sun’s returning, And I rejoice in my bonie Bell.
The flowery Spring leads sunny Summer, The yellow Autumn presses near; Then in his turn comes gloomy Winter, Till smiling Spring again appear: Thus seasons dancing, life advancing, Old Time and Nature their changes tell; But never ranging, still unchanging, I adore my bonie Bell.

Written by Robert Burns | |

540. Inscription to Chloris

 ’TIS Friendship’s pledge, my young, fair Friend,
 Nor thou the gift refuse,
Nor with unwilling ear attend
 The moralising Muse.
Since thou, in all thy youth and charms, Must bid the world adieu, (A world ’gainst Peace in constant arms) To join the Friendly Few.
Since, thy gay morn of life o’ercast, Chill came the tempest’s lour; (And ne’er Misfortune’s eastern blast Did nip a fairer flower.
) Since life’s gay scenes must charm no more, Still much is left behind, Still nobler wealth hast thou in store— The comforts of the mind! Thine is the self-approving glow, Of conscious Honour’s part; And (dearest gift of Heaven below) Thine Friendship’s truest heart.
The joys refin’d of Sense and Taste, With every Muse to rove: And doubly were the Poet blest, These joys could he improve.

Written by Robert Burns | |

Oh Wert Thou In The Cauld Blast

 Oh wert thou in the cauld blast,
On yonder lea, on yonder lea,
My plaidie to the angry airt,
I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee;
Or did misfortune's bitter storms
Around thee blaw, around thee blaw,
Thy bield should be my bosom,
To share it a', to share it a'.
Or were I in the wildest waste, Sae black and bare, sae black and bare, The desart were a paradise, If thou wert there, if thou wert there.
Or were I monarch o' the globe, Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign, The brightest jewel in my crown Wad be my queen, wad be my queen.