Robert Burns

(1759-1796 / Ayrshire / Scotland)

Robert Burns Poems

481. Green Grow The Rashes 1/13/2003
482. Halloween 1/1/2004
483. A Fiddler In The North 1/1/2004
484. Willie Wastle 12/31/2002
485. Scotch Drink 12/31/2002
486. A Poets's Welcome To His Love-Begotten Daughter 5/13/2001
487. To A Louse 12/31/2002
488. Carigieburn Wood 5/13/2001
489. Song—Composed in Spring 5/13/2001
490. Coming Through The Rye 1/13/2003
491. Highland Mary 5/13/2001
492. A Dedication 1/1/2004
493. Address To The Unco Guid 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. To A Kiss 12/31/2002
497. Afton Water 5/13/2001
498. Address To The Devil 5/13/2001
499. Address To The Tooth-Ache 5/13/2001
500. Tam O' Shanter 12/31/2002
501. Address To A Haggis 12/31/2002
502. A Bard's Epitaph 1/1/2004
503. Ae Fond Kiss 5/13/2001
504. A Dream 1/1/2004
505. A Bottle And Friend 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

  • Stephen W (1/1/2014 5:22:00 PM)

    @Ryan Walker: he was writing in Scotch, a perfectly respectable language, later suppressed by a tyrannical government.

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  • 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.

    229 person liked.
    270 person did not like.
  • 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,

    247 person liked.
    262 person did not like.
Best Poem of Robert Burns

A Winter Night

When biting Boreas, fell and doure,
Sharp shivers thro' the leafless bow'r;
When Phoebus gies a short-liv'd glow'r,
Far south the lift,
Dim-dark'ning thro' the flaky show'r,
Or whirling drift:

Ae night the storm the steeples rocked,
Poor Labour sweet in sleep was locked,
While burns, wi' snawy wreeths upchoked,
Wild-eddying swirl,
Or thro' the mining outlet bocked,
Down headlong hurl.

List'ning, the doors an' winnocks rattle,
I thought me on the ourie cattle,
Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle
...

Read the full of A Winter Night

John Anderson My Jo

John Anderson my jo, John,
When we were first acquent,
Your locks were like the raven,
Your bonny brow was brent;
But now your brow is bled, John,
Your locks are like the straw,
But blessings on your frosty pow,
John Anderson my jo!