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Robert Burns Poetry

R o b e r t   B u r n s


S e v e n   P o e m s


On Sensibility

Sensibility how charming,

Thou, my friend, canst truly tell:

But distress with horrors arming,

Thou host also known too well.

Fairest flower, behold the lily,

Blooming in the sunny ray:

Let the blast sweep o’er the valley,

See it prostrate on the clay.

Hear the woodlark charm the forest,

Telling o’er his little joys:

Hapless bird! a prey the surest,

To each pirate of the skies.

Dearly bought, the hidden treasure,

Finer feeling can bestow;

Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure,

Thrill the deepest notes of woe.


On a Friend

An honest man here lies at rest

As e’er God with his image blest!

The friend of man, the friend of truth;

The friend of age, and guide of youth;

Few hearts like his, with virtue warm’d,

Few heads with knowledge so inform’d:

If there’s another world, he lives in bliss;

If there is none, he made the best of this.


The Book-worm


Through and through the inspir’d leaves,

Ye maggots, make your windings;

But oh! respect his lordship’s taste,

And spare his golden bindings.

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 weel, my only luve!

And fare thee weel a-while!

And I will come again, my luve,

Tho’ it were ten thousand mile.

Anna, Thy Charm

Anna, thy charms my bosom fire,

And waste my soul with care;

But ah! how bootless to admire,

When fated to despair!

Yet in thy presence, lovely fair,

To hope may be forgiv’n;

For sure ’twere impious to despair,

So much in sight of Heav’n.

Gloomy December



Ance mair I hail thee, thou gloomy December!

Ance mair I hail thee wi’ sorrow and care:

Sad was the parting thou makes me remember,

Parting wi’ Nancy, oh! ne’er to meet mair.

Fond lovers’ parting is sweet painful pleasure,

Hope beaming mild on the soft parting hour;

But the dire feeling, O farewell for ever!

Is anguish unmingled, and agony pure.


Wild as the winter now tearing the forest,

‘Till the last leaf o’ the summer is flown,

Such is the tempest has shaken my bosom,

Since my last hope and last comfort is gone!

Still as I hail thee, thou gloomy December,

Still shall I hail thee wi’ sorrow and care;

For sad was the parting thou makes me remember,

Parting wi’ Nancy, oh! ne’er to meet mair.


Here is The Glen


Here is the glen, and here the bower,

All underneath the birchen shade;

The village-bell has told the hour–

O what can stay my lovely maid?


‘Tis not Maria’s whispering call;

‘Tis but the balmy-breathing gale,

Mix’d with some warbler’s dying fall,

The dewy star of eve to hail.


It is Maria’s voice I hear!

So calls the woodlark in the grove,

His little, faithful mate to cheer,

At once ’tis music–and ’tis love.


And art thou come? and art thou true?

O welcome, dear to love and me!

And let us all our vows renew

Along the flow’ry banks of Cree.


kemp=mag poetry magazine

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