fbpx

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 [...]

My Lord A-Hunting

By |2018-11-12T18:26:53+00:00November 10th, 2018|1787, Robert Burns Poems, Song, Type, Year|

Chorus.-My lady's gown, there's gairsupon't, And gowden flowers sae rare upon't; But Jenny's jimpsand jirkinet, My lord thinks meiklemairupon't. My lord a-hunting he is gone, But hounds orhawks wi'him are nane; ByColin's cottage lies his game, If Colin's Jenny be at hame. My lady's gown, &c. My lady's white, my lady's red, And kith and [...]

My Peggy’s Charms

By |2018-11-12T18:26:53+00:00November 10th, 2018|1787, Robert Burns Poems, Song, Type, Year|

My Peggy's face, my Peggy's form, The frost of hermit Age might warm; My Peggy's worth, my Peggy's mind, Might charm the first of human kind. I love my Peggy's angel air, Her face so truly heavenly fair, Her native grace, so void of art, But I adore my Peggy's heart. The lily's hue, the [...]

On The Death Of John M’Leod, Esq

By |2018-11-12T18:26:46+00:00November 10th, 2018|1787, Poem, Robert Burns Poems, Type, Year|

Sad thy tale, thou idle page, And rueful thy alarms: Death tears the brother of her love From Isabella's arms. Sweetly deckt with pearly dew The morning rose may blow; Butcold successive noontide blasts May lay its beauties low. Fair on Isabella's morn The sun propitious smil'd; But, long erenoon, succeeding clouds Succeeding hopes beguil'd. [...]

Prologue

By |2018-11-12T18:26:46+00:00November 10th, 2018|1787, Poem, Robert Burns Poems, Type, Year|

When, by a generous Public's kind acclaim, That dearest meed is granted-honest fame; Waen here your favour is the actor's lot, Nor even the man in private life forgot; What breast so deadto heavenly Virtue's glow, But heaves impassion'd with the grateful throe? Poor is the task to please a barb'rous throng, It needs no [...]