Robert Burns (1759–96)

All poems by Robert Burns on Kalliope, ordered alphabetically by the first line of the text. The list can be used to find a poem when the title is unknown.

A

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever

Anna, thy charms my bosom fire

B

But lately seen in gladsome green

C

Comin thro’ the rye, poor body

D

Dear — — —, I’ll gie ye some advice

Duncan Gray cam here to woo

F

Flow gently, sweet Afton! among thy green braes

H

Here Stuarts once in glory reigned

Husband, husband, cease your strife

I

I hae a wife o’ my ain

I married with a scolding wife

Inhuman man! curse on thy barb’rous art

In Politics if thou would’st mix

Is there for honest Poverty

J

John Anderson my jo, John

L

Lassie wi’ the lint-white locks

M

My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here

My lov’d, my honour’d, much respected friend!

N

Nae gentle dames, tho’ e’er sae fair

Now Nature hangs her mantle green

O

O a’ ye pious godly flocks

Of a’ the airts the wind can blaw

Of Lordly acquaintance you boast

Oh, open the door, some pity to shew

O lassie, art thou sleeping yet

O luve will venture in

O Mary, at thy window be

O my Luve ’s like a red, red rose

On a bank of flowers, in a summer day

O saw ye my dearie, my Eppie Macnab?

O Thou Great Being! what Thou art

O Thou unknown, Almighty Cause

O Thou, who in the heavens does dwell

O wert thou in the cauld blast

O wilt thou go wi’ me, sweet Tibbie Dunbar?

P

Powers celestial! whose protection

S

Scots, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled

Should auld acquaintance be forgot

Simmer’s a pleasant time

Some Folk hae meat that canna eat

T

That there is a falsehood in his looks

There lived a carl in Kellyburn Braes

There were three kings into the east

Thou lingering star, with less’ning ray

U

Upon a simmer Sunday morn

W

Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow’r

Wee, sleekit, cow’rin’, tim’rous beastie

Wha is that at my bower-door?

What can a young lassie, what shall a young lassie

When chapmen billies leave the street

When chill November’s surly blast

When lyart leaves bestrow the yird

When wild war’s deadly blast was blawn

Whoe’er thou art, O reader, know

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary

Y

Ye banks, and braes, and streams around

Ye gallants bright, I red ye right

Ye hypocrites! are these your pranks?