To Miss Ferrier

By |2018-11-12T18:26:51+00:00November 10th, 2018|1787, Poem, Robert Burns Poems, Type, Year|

Nae heathen name shall I prefix, FraePindus orParnassus; Auld Reekiedings them a' to sticks, For rhyme-inspiring lasses. Jove's tunefu' dochters three times three Made Homer deep their debtor; But, gienthe bodyhalf ane'e, Nine Ferriers waddone better! Last day my mindwas in a bog, Down George's Street I stoited; A creeping cauldprosaic fog My very sense [...]

To Miss Logan, With Beattie’s Poems, For A New-Year’s Gift, Jan. 1, 1787

By |2018-11-12T18:26:51+00:00November 10th, 2018|1787, Poem, Robert Burns Poems, Type, Year|

Again the silent wheels of time Their annual round have driven, And you, tho' scarce in maiden prime, Are so much nearer Heaven. Nogifts 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 [...]

Verses Written With A Pencil Over the Chimney-piece in the Parlour of the Inn at Kenmore, Taymouth.

By |2018-11-12T18:26:51+00:00November 10th, 2018|1787, Poem, Robert Burns Poems, Type, Year|

Admiring Nature in her wildest grace, These northern scenes with weary feet I trace; O'er many a winding dale and painful steep, Th' abodes of covey'd grouse and timid sheep, My savage journey, curious, I pursue, Tillfam'd Breadalbane opens to my view. - The meeting cliffs each deep-sunk glen divides, The woods wild scatter'd, clothe [...]

Written By Somebody On The Window Of an Inn at Stirling, on seeing the Royal Palace in ruin.

By |2018-11-12T18:26:51+00:00November 10th, 2018|1787, Poem, Robert Burns Poems, Type, Year|

Here Stuarts once in glory reigned, And laws for Scotland's weal ordained; Butnow unroof'd their palace stands, Their sceptre's sway'd byother hands; Fallen indeed, and to the earth Whence groveling reptiles take their birth. The injured Stuart line is gone, A race outlandish fills their throne; Anidiot race, to honour lost; Who know them best [...]

The Bonie Moor-Hen

By |2018-11-12T18:26:50+00:00November 10th, 2018|1787, Poem, Robert Burns Poems, Type, Year|

The heather was blooming, the meadows were mawn, Our lads gaeda-hunting aeday at the dawn, O'er moors and o'er mosses and mony a glen, At length they discover'd a bonie moor-hen. Chorus.-I rede you, beware at the hunting, young men, I rede you, beware at the hunting, young men; Take some on the wing, and [...]

The Humble Petition Of Bruar Water

By |2018-11-12T18:26:51+00:00November 10th, 2018|1787, Poem, Robert Burns Poems, Type, Year|

My lord, I know your noble ear Woe ne'er assails in vain; Embolden'd thus, I beg you'll hear Your humble slave complain, How saucy Phoebus' scorching beams, In flaming summer-pride, Dry-withering, waste my foamy streams, And drink my crystal tide.^1 The lightly-jumping, glowrin' trouts, That thro' my waters play, If, in their random, wanton spouts, [...]