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Best Famous Staw Poems

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

Search and read the best famous Staw poems, articles about Staw poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Staw poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

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Written by Robert Burns | Create an image from this poem

520. Ballad on Mr. Heron's Election—No. 3

 ’TWAS in the seventeen hunder year
 O’ grace, and ninety-five,
That year I was the wae’est man
 Of ony man alive.


In March the three-an’-twentieth morn,
 The sun raise clear an’ bright;
But oh! I was a waefu’ man,
 Ere to-fa’ o’ the night.


Yerl Galloway lang did rule this land,
 Wi’ equal right and fame,
And thereto was his kinsmen join’d,
 The Murray’s noble name.


Yerl Galloway’s man o’ men was I,
 And chief o’ Broughton’s host;
So twa blind beggars, on a string,
 The faithfu’ tyke will trust.


But now Yerl Galloway’s sceptre’s broke,
 And Broughton’s wi’ the slain,
And I my ancient craft may try,
 Sin’ honesty is gane.


’Twas by the banks o’ bonie Dee,
 Beside Kirkcudbright’s towers,
The Stewart and the Murray there,
 Did muster a’ their powers.


Then Murray on the auld grey yaud,
 Wi’ winged spurs did ride,
That auld grey yaud a’ Nidsdale rade,
 He staw upon Nidside.


And there had na been the Yerl himsel,
 O there had been nae play;
But Garlies was to London gane,
 And sae the kye might stray.


And there was Balmaghie, I ween,
 In front rank he wad shine;
But Balmaghie had better been
 Drinkin’ Madeira wine.


And frae Glenkens cam to our aid
 A chief o’ doughty deed;
In case that worth should wanted be,
 O’ Kenmure we had need.


And by our banners march’d Muirhead,
 And Buittle was na slack;
Whase haly priesthood nane could stain,
 For wha could dye the black?


And there was grave squire Cardoness,
 Look’d on till a’ was done;
Sae in the tower o’ Cardoness
 A howlet sits at noon.


And there led I the Bushby clan,
 My gamesome billie, Will,
And my son Maitland, wise as brave,
 My footsteps follow’d still.


The Douglas and the Heron’s name,
 We set nought to their score;
The Douglas and the Heron’s name,
 Had felt our weight before.


But Douglasses o’ weight had we,
 The pair o’ lusty lairds,
For building cot-houses sae fam’d,
 And christenin’ kail-yards.


And there Redcastle drew his sword,
 That ne’er was stain’d wi’ gore,
Save on a wand’rer lame and blind,
 To drive him frae his door.


And last cam creepin’ Collieston,
 Was mair in fear than wrath;
Ae knave was constant in his mind—
 To keep that knave frae scaith.


Written by Robert Burns | Create an image from this poem

147. Address to a Haggis

 FAIR fa’ your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o’ the pudding-race!
Aboon them a’ ye tak your place,
 Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy o’a grace
 As lang’s my arm.


The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
Your pin was help to mend a mill
 In time o’need,
While thro’ your pores the dews distil
 Like amber bead.


His knife see rustic Labour dight,
An’ cut you up wi’ ready sleight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
 Like ony ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
 Warm-reekin’, rich!


Then, horn for horn, they stretch an’ strive:
Deil tak the hindmost! on they drive,
Till a’ their weel-swall’d kytes belyve
 Are bent like drums;
Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
 Bethankit! hums.


Is there that owre his French ragout
Or olio that wad staw a sow,
Or fricassee wad make her spew
 Wi’ perfect sconner,
Looks down wi’ sneering, scornfu’ view
 On sic a dinner?


Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
As feckles as wither’d rash,
His spindle shank, a guid whip-lash;
 His nieve a nit;
Thro’ blody flood or field to dash,
 O how unfit!


But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread.
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,
 He’ll mak it whissle;
An’ legs an’ arms, an’ hands will sned,
 Like taps o’ trissle.


Ye Pow’rs, wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o’ fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
 That jaups in luggies;
But, if ye wish her gratefu’ prayer
 Gie her a haggis!
Written by Robert Burns | Create an image from this poem

316. Song—The Banks o' Doon (First Version)

 SWEET are the banks—the banks o’ Doon,
 The spreading flowers are fair,
And everything is blythe and glad,
 But I am fu’ o’ care.
Thou’ll break my heart, thou bonie 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 bonie bird,
 That sings beside thy mate;
For sae I sat, and sae I sang,
 And wist na o’ my fate.


Aft hae I rov’d by bonie Doon,
 To see the woodbine twine;
And ilka birds sang o’ its Luve,
 And sae did I o’ mine:
Wi’ lightsome heart I pu’d a rose,
 Upon its thorny tree;
But my fause Luver staw my rose
 And left the thorn wi’ me:
Wi’ lightsome heart I pu’d a rose,
 Upon a morn in June;
And sae I flourished on the morn,
 And sae was pu’d or noon!
Written by Robert Burns | Create an image from this poem

318. Song—The Banks o' Doon (Third Version)

 YE banks and braes o’ bonie Doon,
 How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair?
How can ye chant, ye little birds,
 And I sae weary fu’ o’ care!
Thou’ll break my heart, thou warbling bird,
 That wantons thro’ the flowering thorn:
Thou minds me o’ departed joys,
 Departed never to return.


Aft hae I rov’d by Bonie Doon,
 To see the rose and woodbine twine:
And ilka bird sang o’ its Luve,
 And fondly sae did I o’ mine;
Wi’ lightsome heart I pu’d a rose,
 Fu’ sweet upon its thorny tree!
And may fause Luver staw my rose,
 But ah! he left the thorn wi’ me.
Written by Robert Burns | Create an image from this poem

317. Song—The Banks o' Doon (Second Version)

 YE flowery banks o’ bonie Doon,
 How can ye blume sae fair?
How can ye chant, ye little birds,
 And I sae fu’ o care!
Thou’ll break my heart, thou bonie 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 bonie bird,
 That sings beside thy mate;
For sae I sat, and sae I sang,
 And wist na o’ my fate.


Aft hae I rov’d by bonie Doon,
 To see the woodbine twine;
And ilka bird sang o’ its Luve,
 And sae did I o’ mine.
Wi’ lightsome heart I pu’d a rose,
 Upon its thorny tree;
But my fause Luver staw my rose,
 And left the thorn wi’ me.
Wi’ lightsome heart I pu’d a rose,
 Upon a morn in June;
And sae I flourished on the morn,
 And sae was pu’d or noon.


Written by Robert Burns | Create an image from this poem

522. Song—The Cardin o't the Spinning o't

 I COFT a stane o’ haslock woo’,
 To mak a wab to Johnie o’t;
For Johnie is my only jo,
 I loe him best of onie yet.


Chorus.—The cardin’ o’t, the spinnin’ o’t,
 The warpin’ o’t, the winnin’ o’t;
When ilka ell cost me a groat,
 The tailor staw the lynin’ o’t.


For tho’ his locks be lyart grey,
 And tho’ his brow be beld aboon,
Yet I hae seen him on a day,
 The pride of a’ the parishen.
 The cardin o’t, &c.
Written by Robert Burns | Create an image from this poem

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.

Book: Reflection on the Important Things