Robert Burns

(1759-1796 / Ayrshire / Scotland)

Robert Burns Poems

481. I Dream'D I Lay 12/31/2002
482. Fareweel To A'Our Scottish Fame 1/13/2003
483. Green Grow The Rashes 1/13/2003
484. Holy Willie's Prayer 5/13/2001
485. Halloween 1/1/2004
486. A Fiddler In The North 1/1/2004
487. A Poets's Welcome To His Love-Begotten Daughter 5/13/2001
488. To A Louse 12/31/2002
489. Carigieburn Wood 5/13/2001
490. Song—Composed in Spring 5/13/2001
491. To A Kiss 12/31/2002
492. Coming Through The Rye 1/13/2003
493. Highland Mary 5/13/2001
494. A Dedication 1/1/2004
495. Address To The Tooth-Ache 5/13/2001
496. Address To The Unco Guid 1/1/2004
497. Ah, Woe Is Me, My Mother Dear 5/13/2001
498. Ae Fond Kiss 5/13/2001
499. Address To The Devil 5/13/2001
500. Tam O' Shanter 12/31/2002
501. Afton Water 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. To A Mouse 12/31/2002
508. Auld Lang Syne 5/13/2001
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

  • 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,

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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

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!

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