Robert Burns

(1759-1796 / Ayrshire / Scotland)

Robert Burns Poems

201. Song—my Collier Laddie 11/15/2014
202. Verses Written With A Pencil At The Inn At Kenmore 11/15/2014
203. Sketch In Verse, Inscribed To The Right Hon. C. J. Fox 11/15/2014
204. Song—the Bonie Wee Thing 11/15/2014
205. Song—behold, My Love, How Green The Groves 11/15/2014
206. Song—i Hae A Wife O' My Ain 11/15/2014
207. Song—fairest Maid On Devon's Banks 11/15/2014
208. Song—the Young Highland Rover 11/15/2014
209. Song—m'Pherson's Farewell 11/15/2014
210. Song—guid Ale Keeps The Heart Aboon 11/15/2014
211. Song—by Allan Stream 11/15/2014
212. Epitaph For James Smith 11/15/2014
213. Complimentary Epigram To Mrs. Riddell 11/15/2014
214. Song—of A' The Airts The Wind Can Blaw 11/15/2014
215. Song—had I A Cave 11/14/2014
216. Stanzas, On The Same Occasion 11/15/2014
217. Address Spoken By Miss Fontenelle 11/15/2014
218. Ballad On Mr. Heron's Election—no. 1 11/15/2014
219. Song—the Bonie Moor-Hen 11/14/2014
220. Ode For General Washington's Birthday 11/14/2014
221. The Twa Herds; Or, The Holy Tulyie 11/14/2014
222. Grace Before And After Meat 10/27/2014
223. On A Scotch Bard, Gone To The West Indies 10/27/2014
224. Frae The Friends And Land I Love 10/25/2014
225. Scroggam, My Dearie 10/25/2014
226. Versified Reply To An Invitation 10/25/2014
227. On Elphinstone's Translation Of Martial's Epigrams 10/25/2014
228. My Lord A-Hunting He Is Gane 10/25/2014
229. Forlorn, My Love, No Comfort Here 10/25/2014
230. Epitaph On James Grieve 10/25/2014
231. Epigram On Andrew Turner 10/25/2014
232. Sweet Afton 10/24/2014
233. Election Ballad At Close Of Contest For Representing The Dumfries Burghs, 1790 10/24/2014
234. 152. Extempore In The Court Of Session 10/24/2014
235. Death And Dr. Hornbook 10/24/2014
236. Poem On Pastoral Poetry 10/24/2014
237. The Farewell To The Brethren Of St. James's Lodge, Tarbolton 10/24/2014
238. Lord Gregory: A Ballad 10/25/2014
239. The Belles Of Mauchline 10/25/2014
240. Rantin, Rovin Robin 10/25/2014

Comments about Robert Burns

  • Cj Mcwilliam Cj Mcwilliam (1/25/2016 5:07:00 AM)

    Scotch is actually the Scottish word for Scots, but the language itself actually differs depending on which area you're in, I think Burns spoke Doric.

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  • Robert Buchanan (7/17/2015 10:31:00 PM)

    Stephen he may well have been drinking Scotch but as Jennifer says the language is Scots or Auld Scots and it was not so much the language which was suppressed but the culture of the people, the music and the dress but to give two examples. Robert Burns was a remarkable man, his breath may have stopped but his voice is still heard.

  • Jennifer Barker (5/21/2015 12:02:00 PM)

    The language is actually Scots, not Scotch (as in the whisky) . It is a 800+ year old language.

  • 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.

  • 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.

  • 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

To A Louse

On Seeing One on a Lady's Bonnet at Church

Ha! whare ye gaun' ye crowlin ferlie?
Your impudence protects you sairly;
I canna say but ye strunt rarely
Owre gauze and lace,
Tho faith! I fear ye dine but sparely
On sic a place.

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