Robert Burns - Poems
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Classic Poetry Series Robert Burns - poems - Publication Date: 2004 Publisher: Poemhunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive Robert Burns(1759-1796) Burns, sometimes known as the 'ploughman poet', was the eldest son of a poverty-stricken farmer. Though his father had moved to Ayrshire, where Burns was born, in order to attempt to improve his fortunes, he eventually died as a bankrupt - after taking on first one farm and then, unsuccessful, moving to another - in 1784. Robert, who had been to school since the age of six, and was also educated at home by a teacher, had, by the age of fifteen, already become the farm's chief labourer. He had also acquired a reading knowledge of French and Latin and had read Shakespeare, Dryden, Milton and the Bible. After his father's death, he and his brother continued farming together, working now at Mossigiel. The poverty of Burns' early life, though far from being overcome, had produced in him a supporter of the French Revolution and a rebel against both Calvinism and the social order of his time. His rebellious nature soon became evident in his acts. Burns' first illegitimate child was borne to him by Elizabeth Paton in 1785. Two sets of twins later followed, and various amorous intrigues, from Jean Amour, whom he afterward married. It was also during this period that Burns' first achieved literary success. Though he had thought of emigration to Jamaica as a possible way to avoid his mounting problems, he published his Poems Chiefly in the Scottish Dialect on July 31 1786 at Kilmarnock. This volume contained, among others, 'The Cotter's Saturday Night', 'To a Mouse', 'To a Mountain Daisy' and 'The Holy Fair', all of which were written at Mossigiel. The volume brought him immediate success. After 1787 Burns, married in 1788 and having moved to Ellisland with his bride, worked chiefly for James Johnson, whom he met in Edinburgh, and, later, for George Thomson. It was for these men that Burns compiled and added to the two great compilations of Scottish songs: Thomson's Scott's Musical Museum and Johnson's Select Collection of Original Scottish Airs for the Voice. Alongside this work, which Burns did on an unpaid basis, he also worked, from 1791 onward, as an Excise Officer. This allowed him to give up farming and move to the Dumfries. He died from rheumatic fever just five years later, having also published, again in 1791, his last major work, a narrative poem entitled 'Tom O'Shanter'. www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 1 148. To Miss Logan, With Beattie's Poems AGAIN the silent wheels of time Their annual round have driven, And you, tho' scarce in maiden prime, Are so much nearer Heaven. No gifts have I from Indian coasts The infant year to hail; I send you more than India boasts, In Edwin's simple tale. Our sex with guile, and faithless love, Is charg'd, perhaps too true; But may, dear maid, each lover prove An Edwin still to you. Robert Burns www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 2 152. Extempore In The Court Of Session LORD ADVOCATEHE clenched his pamphlet in his fist, He quoted and he hinted, Till, in a declamation-mist, His argument he tint it: He gapèd for't, he grapèd for't, He fand it was awa, man; But what his common sense came short, He eked out wi' law, man. MR. ERSKINECollected, Harry stood awee, Then open'd out his arm, man; His Lordship sat wi' ruefu' e'e, And ey'd the gathering storm, man: Like wind-driven hail it did assail' Or torrents owre a lin, man: The BENCH sae wise, lift up their eyes, Half-wauken'd wi' the din, man. Robert Burns www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 3 233. Song—O were I on Parnassus Hill O, WERE I on Parnassus hill, Or had o' Helicon my fill, That I might catch poetic skill, To sing how dear I love thee! But Nith maun be my Muse's well, My Muse maun be thy bonie sel', On Corsincon I'll glowr and spell, And write how dear I love thee. Then come, sweet Muse, inspire my lay! For a' the lee-lang simmer's day I couldna sing, I couldna say, How much, how dear, I love thee, I see thee dancing o'er the green, Thy waist sae jimp, thy limbs sae clean, Thy tempting lips, thy roguish een— By Heaven and Earth I love thee! By night, by day, a-field, at hame, The thoughts o' thee my breast inflame: And aye I muse and sing thy name— I only live to love thee. Tho' I were doom'd to wander on, Beyond the sea, beyond the sun, Till my last weary sand was run; Till then—and then I love thee! Robert Burns www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 4 314. Song—there'Ll Never Be Peace Till Jamie Comes Hame BY yon Castle wa', at the close of the day, I heard a man sing, tho' his head it was grey: And as he was singing, the tears doon came,— There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. The Church is in ruins, the State is in jars, Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars, We dare na weel say't, but we ken wha's to blame,— There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword, But now I greet round their green beds in the yerd; It brak the sweet heart o' my faithful and dame,— There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. Now life is a burden that bows me down, Sin' I tint my bairns, and he tint his crown; But till my last moments my words are the same,— There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. Robert Burns www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 5 320. Lines to Sir John Whitefoord, Bart THOU, who thy honour as thy God rever'st, Who, save thy mind's reproach, nought earthly fear'st, To thee this votive offering I impart, The tearful tribute of a broken heart. The Friend thou valued'st, I, the Patron lov'd; His worth, his honour, all the world approved: We'll mourn till we too go as he has gone, And tread the shadowy path to that dark world unknown. Robert Burns www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 6 329. Verses on the destruction of the Woods near Drumlanrig AS on the banks o' wandering Nith, Ae smiling simmer morn I stray'd, And traced its bonie howes and haughs, Where linties sang and lammies play'd, I sat me down upon a craig, And drank my fill o' fancy's dream, When from the eddying deep below, Up rose the genius of the stream. Dark, like the frowning rock, his brow, And troubled, like his wintry wave, And deep, as sughs the boding wind Amang his caves, the sigh he gave— "And come ye here, my son," he cried, "To wander in my birken shade? To muse some favourite Scottish theme, Or sing some favourite Scottish maid? "There was a time, it's nae lang syne, Ye might hae seen me in my pride, When a' my banks sae bravely saw Their woody pictures in my tide; When hanging beech and spreading elm Shaded my stream sae clear and cool: And stately oaks their twisted arms Threw broad and dark across the pool; "When, glinting thro' the trees, appear'd The wee white cot aboon the mill, And peacefu' rose its ingle reek, That, slowly curling, clamb the hill. But now the cot is bare and cauld, Its leafy bield for ever gane, And scarce a stinted birk is left www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 7 To shiver in the blast its lane." "Alas!" quoth I, "what ruefu' chance Has twin'd ye o' your stately trees? Has laid your rocky bosom bare— Has stripped the cleeding o' your braes? Was it the bitter eastern blast, That scatters blight in early spring? Or was't the wil'fire scorch'd their boughs, Or canker-worm wi' secret sting?" "Nae eastlin blast," the sprite replied; "It blaws na here sae fierce and fell, And on my dry and halesome banks Nae canker-worms get leave to dwell: Man! cruel man!" the genius sighed— As through the cliffs he sank him down— "The worm that gnaw'd my bonie trees, That reptile wears a ducal crown." 1 Robert Burns www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 8 357. A Grace Before Dinner O THOU who kindly dost provide For every creature's want! We bless Thee, God of Nature wide, For all Thy goodness lent: And if it please Thee, Heavenly Guide, May never worse be sent; But, whether granted, or denied, Lord, bless us with content. Amen Robert Burns www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 9 379. Song—fragment—love For Love ITHERS seek they ken na what, Features, carriage, and a' that; Gie me love in her I court, Love to love maks a' the sport. Let love sparkle in her e'e; Let her lo'e nae man but me; That's the tocher-gude I prize, There the luver's treasure lies. Robert Burns www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 10 381.