Robert Burns

(1759-1796 / Ayrshire / Scotland)

Robert Burns Poems

241. Epitaph On &Quot;Wee Johnnie&Quot; 10/25/2014
242. Commemoration Of Rodney's Victory 10/27/2014
243. Farewell To The Banks Of Ayr 10/27/2014
244. Lament Of Mary, Queen Of Scots 11/14/2014
245. Song—beware O' Bonie Ann 11/14/2014
246. Song—braving Angry Winer's Storms 11/14/2014
247. The Bard At Inverary 11/11/2014
248. Rantin, Rovin Robin 10/25/2014
249. On Chloris Being Ill 10/25/2014
250. The Belles Of Mauchline 10/25/2014
251. The Farewell To The Brethren Of St. James's Lodge, Tarbolton 10/24/2014
252. Lines To Mr. John Kennedy 10/24/2014
253. The First Six Verses Of The Ninetieth Psalm Versified 11/14/2014
254. Song—phillis The Fair 11/15/2014
255. The Epitaph On Captain Matthew Henderson 11/15/2014
256. Epistle To Davie, A Brother Poet 11/15/2014
257. Song—&Quot;Indeed Will I,&Quot; Quo' Findlay 11/15/2014
258. Fragment Of Song—the Night Was Still 11/15/2014
259. The Banks Of The Devon 11/6/2014
260. The Gardener Wi' His Paidle 10/25/2014
261. Song—fragment—there Was A Bonie Lass 11/15/2014
262. The Solemn League And Covenant 11/15/2014
263. Address To The Unco Guid 11/15/2014
264. Song—mary Morison 11/15/2014
265. The Humble Petition Of Bruar Water 11/15/2014
266. The Winter It Is Past 10/25/2014
267. Remorseful Apology 10/24/2014
268. A Grace After Meat 10/24/2014
269. The Charming Month Of May 10/24/2014
270. She's Fair And Fause 10/25/2014
271. Epitaph On John Dove, Innkeeper 10/25/2014
272. Go On, Sweet Bird, And Soothe My Care 10/25/2014
273. A Tippling Ballad—when Princes And Prelates, Etc. 10/24/2014
274. On The Seas And Far Away 10/24/2014
275. Impromptu On Mrs. Riddell's Birthday 10/25/2014
276. Song—i'M O'Er Young To Marry Yet 11/14/2014
277. The Inventory 11/15/2014
278. Song—o Were My Love You Lilac Fair 11/15/2014
279. Song—on A Bank Of Flowers 11/15/2014
280. Epigram On A Country Laird (Cardoness) 11/15/2014

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

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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