Robert Burns

(1759-1796 / Ayrshire / Scotland)

Robert Burns Poems

481. My Highland Lassie, O 12/31/2002
482. Halloween 1/1/2004
483. A Fiddler In The North 1/1/2004
484. A Poets's Welcome To His Love-Begotten Daughter 5/13/2001
485. Carigieburn Wood 5/13/2001
486. Song—Composed in Spring 5/13/2001
487. To A Kiss 12/31/2002
488. Green Grow The Rashes 1/13/2003
489. To A Louse 12/31/2002
490. Holy Willie's Prayer 5/13/2001
491. Coming Through The Rye 1/13/2003
492. Highland Mary 5/13/2001
493. A Dedication 1/1/2004
494. Auld Farmer's New-Year-Morning 12/31/2002
495. Ah, Woe Is Me, My Mother Dear 5/13/2001
496. Address To The Unco Guid 1/1/2004
497. Address To The Tooth-Ache 5/13/2001
498. Afton Water 5/13/2001
499. Ae Fond Kiss 5/13/2001
500. Tam O' Shanter 12/31/2002
501. Address To The Devil 5/13/2001
502. A Bottle And Friend 1/1/2004
503. A Bard's Epitaph 1/1/2004
504. Address To A Haggis 12/31/2002
505. A Dream 1/1/2004
506. My Heart's In The Highlands 1/13/2003
507. Auld Lang Syne 5/13/2001
508. To A Mouse 12/31/2002
509. A Winter Night 5/13/2001
510. A Man's A Man For A' That 5/13/2001
511. A Fond Kiss 1/3/2003
512. A Red, Red Rose 5/13/2001

Comments about Robert Burns

  • Ryan Walker (1/26/2012 12:13:00 PM)

    Interesting. His poetry reminds me of when I read Mark Twain's Huckelberry Finn. It's a great use of broken and common language. It certainly adds an aspect to his poetry.

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  • Ted Mohr (12/11/2009 11:35:00 AM)

    Your copy of Robert Burns' A Man's a Man for A' That appears to me to have left out one line in the final stanza which when entered would make the 5th and 6th lines read:
    For a' that, an' a' that,
    It’s cuming yet, for a' that,

Best Poem of 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 the melodie
That's sweetly play'd in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I:
And I will luve 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 luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o' life shall run.

And fare thee well, my only Luve
And fare thee well, a while!
And I will come again, my Luve,
Tho' it were ten thousand mile.

Read the full of A Red, Red Rose

Banks O' Doon, The

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.

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