War poems
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278. On the late Captain Groses Peregrinations
© Robert Burns
Now, by the Powrs o verse and prose!
Thou art a dainty chield, O Grose!
Whaeer o thee shall ill suppose,
They sair misca thee;
Id take the rascal by the nose,
Wad say, Shame fa thee!
111. Address to Beelzebub
© Robert Burns
LONG life, my Lord, an health be yours,
Unskaithed by hungerd Highland boors;
Lord grant me nae duddie, desperate beggar,
Wi dirk, claymore, and rusty trigger,
142. Epistle to Major Logan
© Robert Burns
Nae mair at present can I measure,
An trowth my rhymin wares nae treasure;
But when in Ayr, some half-hours leisure,
Bet light, bet dark,
Sir Bard will do himself the pleasure
To call at Park.ROBERT BURNS.Mossgiel, 30th October, 1786.
The Boys
© James Whitcomb Riley
Where are they?--the friends of my childhood enchanted--
The clear, laughing eyes looking back in my own,
And the warm, chubby fingers my palms have so wanted,
As when we raced over
Pink pastures of clover,
And mocked the quail's whir and the bumblebee's drone?
161. Epigram Addressed to an Artist
© Robert Burns
DEAR , Ill gie ye some advice,
Youll tak it no uncivil:
You shouldna paint at angels mair,
But try and paint the devil.
496. SongMy Nanies awa
© Robert Burns
NOW in her green mantle blythe Nature arrays,
And listens the lambkins that bleat oer her braes;
While birds warble welcomes in ilka green shaw,
But to me its delightlessmy Nanies awa.
113. A Dedication to Gavin Hamilton, Esq.
© Robert Burns
The Poet, some guid angel help him,
Or else, I fear, some ill ane skelp him!
He may do weel for a hes done yet,
But onlyhes no just begun yet.
295. Epistle to Dr. Blacklock
© Robert Burns
My compliments to sister Beckie,
And eke the same to honest Lucky;
I wat she is a daintie chuckie,
As eer tread clay;
And gratefully, my gude auld cockie,
Im yours for aye.ROBERT BURNS.
465. SongIt was a for our rightfu King
© Robert Burns
IT was a for our rightfu King
We left fair Scotlands strand;
It was a for our rightfu King
We eer saw Irish land, my dear,
We eer saw Irish land.
300. Scots Prologue for Mr. Sutherland
© Robert Burns
WHAT needs this din about the town o Lonon,
How this new play an that new sang is comin?
Why is outlandish stuff sae meikle courted?
Does nonsense mend, like brandy, when imported?
147. Address to a Haggis
© Robert Burns
Ye Powrs, wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies;
But, if ye wish her gratefu prayer
Gie her a haggis!
421. Epitaph on a Lap-dog
© Robert Burns
IN wood and wild, ye warbling throng,
Your heavy loss deplore;
Now, half extinct your powers of song,
Sweet Echo is no more.
241. Written in Friars Carse Hermitage (Second Version)
© Robert Burns
THOU whom chance may hither lead,
Be thou clad in russet weed,
Be thou deckt in silken stole,
Grave these counsels on thy soul.
Two Christmas Eves
© Edith Nesbit
Don't go to sleep; you mustn't sleep
Here on the frozen floor! Yes, creep
Closer to me. Oh, if I knew
What is this something left to do!
254. Caledonia: A Ballad
© Robert Burns
THERE was once a day, but old Time wasythen young,
That brave Caledonia, the chief of her line,
From some of your northern deities sprung,
(Who knows not that brave Caledonias divine?)
The Ballad of the White Horse
© Gilbert Keith Chesterton
Of great limbs gone to chaos,
A great face turned to night-
Why bend above a shapeless shroud
Seeking in such archaic cloud
Sight of strong lords and light?
297. Election Ballad for Westerha
© Robert Burns
THE LADDIES by the banks o Nith
Wad trust his Grace 1 wi a, Jamie;
But hell sair them, as he saird the King
Turn tail and rin awa, Jamie.
The Iron Crags
© Madison Julius Cawein
UPON the iron crags of War I heard his terrible daughters
In battle speak while at their feet,
In gulfs of human waters,
A voice, intoning, "Where is God?" in ceaseless sorrow beat:
Buick
© Karl Shapiro
As a sloop with a sweep of immaculate wing on her delicate spine
And a keel as steel as a root that holds in the sea as she leans,
Leaning and laughing, my warm-hearted beauty, you ride, you ride,
You tack on the curves with parabola speed and a kiss of goodbye,
Like a thoroughbred sloop, my new high-spirited spirit, my kiss.
A Little Grey Curl
© Louisa May Alcott
A little grey curl from my father's head
I find unburned on the hearth,
