Robert Burns

Love Poems

A red, red rose


Ae Fond Kiss


Jean


Song


Clarinda, Mistress Of My Soul


An ode to Delia


Farewell To Eliza


Winter

A red, red rose

O, my luve is like a red, red rose,
That's newly sprung in June.
O, my luve is like a melodie,
That's sweetly play'd in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonie 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 !
And 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 !
bonie: bonnie, pretty luve: love till: to a': all gang: go wi': with o': of


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Ae Fond Kiss

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever; 
Ae fareweel, and then forever ! 
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, 
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. 
Who shall say that Fortune grieves him, 
While the star of hope she leaves him ? 
Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me; 
Dark despair around benights me.

I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy, 
Naething could resist my Nancy; 
But to see her was to love her; 
Love but her, and love forever. 
Had we never lov'd sae kindly, 
Had we never lov'd sae blindly, 
Never met--or never parted-- 
We had ne'er been broken-hearted.

Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest ! 
Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest ! 
Thine be ilka joy and treasure, 
Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure ! 
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever; 
Ae fareweel, alas, forever ! 
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, 
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee !


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JEAN

Of a' the airts the wind can blaw, 
I dearly like the west, 
For there the bonnie lassie lives, 
The lassie I lo'e best: 
There wild woods grow, and rivers row, 
And monie a hill between; 
But day and night may fancy's flight 
Is ever wi' my Jean. 
  
I see her in the dewy flowers, 
I see her sweet and fair: 
I hear her in the tunefu' birds, 
I hear her charm the air: 
There's not a bonnie flower that springs 
By fountain, shaw, or green; 
There's not a bonnie bird that sings, 
But minds me o' my Jean.
a': all wi: with tunefu': tuneful bonnie: pretty


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Song

It was upon a Lammas night,
When corn rigs are bonie,
Beneath the moon's unclouded light,
I held awa to Annie:
The time flew by, wi' tentless heed,
Till 'tween the late and early;
Wi' sma' persuasion she agreed,
To see me thro' the barley.
The sky was blue, the wind was still,
The moon was shinning clearly;
I set her down, wi' right good will,
Amang the rigs o' barley:
I ken't her heart was a' my ain;
I lov'd her most sincerely;
I kiss'd her owre and owre again,
Amang the rigs o' barley.
I lock'd her in my fond embrace;
Her heart was beating rarely:
My blessing on that happy place,
Amang the rigs o' barley!
But by the moon and stars so bright,
That shone that hour so clearly!
She ay shall bless that happy night,
Amang the rigs o' barley.
I hae been blythe wi' Comrades dear;
I hae been merry drinking;
I hae been joyfu' gath'rin gear;
I hae been happy thinking:
But a' the pleasures e'er I saw,
Tho' three times doubl'd fairly,
That happy night was worth them a',
Amang the rigs o' barley.
Chorus Corn rigs, an' barley rigs,
An' corn rigs are bonie:
I'll ne'er forget the happy night,
Amang the rigs wi' Annie.
lammas: loaf mass. 'Lammas Day' is a holiday celebrated in some English-speaking countries in the Northern Hemisphere, usually between 1 August and 1 September. It is a festival to mark the annual wheat harvest, and is the first harvest festival of the year. On this day it was customary to bring to church a loaf made from the new crop, which began to be harvested at Lammastide. Source: Wikipedia. 'Lammas Night' is a fantasy novel by the American-born author Katherine Kurtz, first published in paperback by Ballantine Books in December 1983. Plot: The year is 1940. Hitler's Germany is about to employ the secret arts of evil witchcraft to destroy England. What can stop them?


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Clarinda, mistress of my soul

Clarinda, mistress of my soul, 
The measur'd time is run ! 
The wretch beneath the dreary pole 
So marks his latest sun. 

To what dark cave of frozen night 
Shall poor Sylvander hie; 
Depriv'd of thee, his life and light, 
The sun of all his joy ? 

We part-but by these precious drops, 
That fill thy lovely eyes, 
No other light shall guide my steps, 
Till thy bright beams arise ! 

She, the fair sun of all her sex, 
Has blest my glorious day; 
And shall a glimmering planet fix 
My worship to its ray ?



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An ode to Delia

Fair the face of orient day, 
Fair the tints of op'ning rose; 
But fairer still my Delia dawns, 
More lovely far her beauty shows. 

Sweet the lark's wild warbled lay, 
Sweet the tinkling rill to hear; 
But, Delia, more delightful still, 
Steal thine accents on mine ear. 

The flower-enamour'd busy bee 
The rosy banquet loves to sip; 
Sweet the streamlet's limpid lapse 
To the sun-brown'd Arab's lip. 

But, Delia, on thy balmy lips 
Let me, no vagrant insect, rove; 
O let me steal one liquid kiss, 
For Oh! my soul is parch'd with love.



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Farewell To Eliza  (song)

From thee, Eliza, I must go, 
And from my native shore; 
The cruel fates between us throw 
A boundless ocean's roar: 
But boundless oceans, roaring wide, 
Between my love and me, 
They never, never can divide 
My heart and soul from thee. 

Farewell, farewell, Eliza dear, 
The maid that I adore ! 
A boding voice is in mine ear, 
We part to meet no more ! 
But the latest throb that leaves my heart, 
While Death stands victor by, - 
That throb, Eliza, is thy part, 
And thine that latest sigh !



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Up in the Morning Early

Cauld blaws the wind frae east to west,
   The drift is driving sairly;
Sae loud and shrillís I hear the blast,
   Iím sure itís winter fairly.
 
Up in the morningís no for me,
   Up in the morning early;
When aí the hills are coveríd wií snaw,
   Iím sure its winter fairly.
 
The birds sit chittering in the thorn,
   Aí day they fare but sparely;
And langís the night frae eíen to morn,
   Iím sure itís winter fairly.
 
Up in the morningís no for me,
   Up in the morning early;
When aí the hills are coveríd wií snaw,
   Iím sure its winter fairly.


Robert Burns  (į1759; Ü1796)

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Update: 22-01-2017.