Robert Burns Short Poems

NO 1 sculptured marble here, nor pompous lay,
“No storied urn nor animated bust;”
This simple stone directs pale Scotia’s way,
To pour her sorrows o’er the Poet’s dust.ADDITIONAL STANZASShe mourns, sweet tuneful youth, thy hapless fate;
Tho’ all the powers of song thy fancy fired,
Yet Luxury and Wealth lay by in state,
And, thankless, starv’d what they so much admired.

This tribute, with a tear, now gives
A brother Bard-he can no more bestow:
But dear to fame thy Song immortal lives,
A nobler monument than Art can shew.
O HAD each Scot of ancient times
Been, Jeanie Scott, as thou art;
The bravest heart on English ground
Had yielded like a coward.
HERE lie Willie Michie’s banes;
O Satan, when ye tak him,
Gie him the schulin o’ your weans,
For clever deils he’ll mak them!
HERE Souter Hood in death does sleep;
To hell if he’s gane thither,
Satan, gie him thy gear to keep;
He’ll haud it weel thegither.
WHEN first I came to Stewart Kyle,
My mind it was na steady;
Where’er I gaed, where’er I rade,
A mistress still I had aye.But when I came roun’ by Mauchline toun,
Not dreadin anybody,
My heart was caught, before I thought,
And by a Mauchline lady.
KNOW thou, O stranger to the fame
Of this much lov’d, much honoured name!
(For none that knew him need be told)
A warmer heart death ne’er made cold.
WEE Willie Gray, and his leather wallet,
Peel a willow wand to be him boots and jacket;
The rose upon the breir will be him trews an’ doublet,
The rose upon the breir will be him trews an’ doublet,Wee Willie Gray, and his leather wallet,
Twice a lily-flower will be him sark and cravat;
Feathers of a flee wad feather up his bonnet,
Feathers of a flee wad feather up his bonnet.
YE hypocrites! are these your pranks?
To murder men and give God thanks!
Desist, for shame!—proceed no further;
God won’t accept your thanks for MURTHER
HERE lies a mock Marquis, whose titles were shamm’d,
If ever he rise, it will be to be damn’d.
CEASE, ye prudes, your envious railing,
Lovely Burns has charms—confess:
True it is, she had one failing,
Had a woman ever less?
ALTHO’ he has left me for greed o’ the siller,
I dinna envy him the gains he can win;
I rather wad bear a’ the lade o’ my sorrow,
Than ever hae acted sae faithless to him.
GRANT me, indulgent Heaven, that I may live,
To see the miscreants feel the pains they give;
Deal Freedom’s sacred treasures free as air,
Till Slave and Despot be but things that were.
HERE Brewer Gabriel’s fire’s extinct,
And empty all his barrels:
He’s blest—if, as he brew’d, he drink,
In upright, honest morals.
DEAR SIR, at ony time or tide,
I’d rather sit wi’ you than ride,
Though ’twere wi’ royal Geordie:
And trowth, your kindness, soon and late,
Aft gars me to mysel’ look blate—
The Lord in Heav’n reward ye!R. BURNS.ELLISLAND.