Epitaph.

    Here brewer Gabriel's fire's extinct,
        And empty all his barrels:
    He's blest, if, as he brew'd, he drink,
        In upright virtuous morals.

Robert Burns

Robert Burns, also known as Rabbie Burns, the Bard of Ayrshire, and various other names and epithets, was a Scottish poet and lyricist. He is widely regarded as the national poet of Scotland and is celebrated worldwide. Born on January 25, 1759, in Alloway, he is best known for works such as 'Auld Lang Syne,' 'Scots Wha Hae,' and 'A Red, Red Rose.' He passed away on July 21, 1796, in Dumfries.

Robert Burns

The Auld Farmer's - New-Year Morning Salutation To His Auld Mare Maggie, On Giving Her The Accustomed Ripp Of Corn To Hansel In The New Year

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Written In A Wrapper, Enclosing A Letter To Captain Grose.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

The Tither Moon.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Lines, Sent To A Gentleman Whom He Had Offended.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

A Bard's Epitaph.

    Is there a whim-inspired fool,
    Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule,
    Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool,
        Let him draw near;
    And owre this grassy heap sing dool,
        And drap a tear.

    Is there a bard of rustic song,
    Who, noteless, steals the crowds among,
    That weekly this area throng,
        O, pass not by!
    But with a frater-feeling strong,
        Here heave a sigh.

    Is there a man, whose judgment clear,
    Can others teach the course to steer,
    Yet runs, himself, life's mad career,
        Wild as the wave;
    Here pause, and, through the starting tear,
        Survey this grave.

    The poor inhabitant below
    Was quick to learn and wise to know,
    And keen...

Robert Burns

On John Dove, Innkeeper, Mauchline.

    Here lies Johnny Pidgeon;
    What was his religion?
        Wha e'er desires to ken,
    To some other warl'
    Maun follow the carl,
        For here Johnny Pidgeon had nane!

    Strong ale was ablution,
    Small beer, persecution,
        A dram was memento mori;
    But a full flowing bowl
    Was the saving his soul,
        And port was celestial glory.

Robert Burns

Ode Sacred To The Memory Of Mrs. Oswald, Of Auchencruive.

    Dweller in yon dungeon dark,
    Hangman of creation, mark!
    Who in widow-weeds appears,
    Laden with unhonoured years,
    Noosing with care a bursting purse,
    Baited with many a deadly curse?

Strophe.

    View the wither'd beldam's face,
    Can thy keen inspection trace
    Aught of Humanity's sweet melting grace?
    Note that eye, 'tis rheum o'erflows,
    Pity's flood there never rose.
    See these hands, ne'er stretch'd to save,
    Hands that took, but never gave.
    Keeper of Mammon's iron chest,
    Lo, there she goes, unpitied and unblest
    She goes, but not to realms of everlasting rest!

Antistrophe.

    Plunderer of armies, lift thine eyes,
    (Awhile forbear, ye tort'ring fiends;)
    S...

Robert Burns

Inscription On A Goblet.

    There's death in the cup, sae beware!
        Nay, more, there is danger in touching;
    But wha can avoid the fell snare?
        The man and his wine's sae bewitching!

Robert Burns

On A Friend.

    An honest man here lies at rest
    As e'er God with his image blest!
    The friend of man, the friend of truth;
    The friend of age, and guide of youth;
    Few hearts like his, with virtue warm'd,
    Few heads with knowledge so inform'd:
    If there's another world, he lives in bliss;
    If there is none, he made the best of this.

Robert Burns

To Robert Graham, Esq., Of Fintray.

    Late crippl'd of an arm, and now a leg,
    About to beg a pass for leave to beg:
    Dull, listless, teas'd, dejected, and deprest,
    (Nature is adverse to a cripple's rest;)
    Will generous Graham list to his Poet's wail?
    (It soothes poor misery, hearkening to her tale,)
    And hear him curse the light he first survey'd,
    And doubly curse the luckless rhyming trade?

    Thou, Nature, partial Nature! I arraign;
    Of thy caprice maternal I complain:
    The lion and the bull thy care have found,
    One shakes the forests, and one spurns the ground:
    Thou giv'st the ass his hide, the snail his shell,
    Th' envenom'd wasp, victorious, guards his cell;
    Thy minions, kings, defend, control, devour,
    In all th' omnipotence of rule and...

Robert Burns