Epitaph On William Nicol.

    Ye maggots, feast on Nicol's brain,
        For few sic feasts ye've gotten;
    And fix your claws in Nicol's heart,
        For deil a bit o't's rotten.

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

Beware O' Bonnie Ann.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Menie.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

On Captain Grose's Peregrinations Through Scotland, Collecting The Antiquities Of That Kingdom.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Had I The Wyte.

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.

On Wat.

    Sic a reptile was Wat,
        Sic a miscreant slave,
    That the very worms damn'd him
        When laid in his grave.
    "In his flesh there's a famine,"
        A starv'd reptile cries;
    "An' his heart is rank poison,"
        Another replies.

Robert Burns

Epitaph On Holy Willie.

    Here Holy Willie's sair worn clay
        Takes up its last abode;
    His saul has ta'en some other way,
        I fear the left-hand road.

    Stop! there he is, as sure's a gun,
        Poor, silly body, see him;
    Nae wonder he's as black's the grun,
        Observe wha's standing wi' him.

    Your brunstane devilship I see,
        Has got him there before ye;
    But hand your nine-tail cat a wee,
        Till ance you've heard my story.

    Your pity I will not implore,
        For pity ye hae nane;
    Justice, alas! has gi'en him o'er,
        And mercy's day is gaen.

    But hear me, sir, deil as ye are,
        Look something to your credit;
    A coof like him wad stain your name,
        If it were kent...

Robert Burns

Poem On Life, Addressed To Colonel De Peyster. Dumfries, 1796.

    My honoured colonel, deep I feel
    Your interest in the Poet's weal;
    Ah! now sma' heart hae I to speel
        The steep Parnassus,
    Surrounded thus by bolus, pill,
        And potion glasses.

    O what a canty warld were it,
    Would pain and care and sickness spare it;
    And fortune favour worth and merit,
        As they deserve!
    (And aye a rowth, roast beef and claret;
        Syne, wha wad starve?)

    Dame Life, tho' fiction out may trick her,
    And in paste gems and frippery deck her;
    Oh! flickering, feeble, and unsicker
        I've found her still,
    Ay wavering like the willow-wicker,
        'Tween good and ill.

    Then that curst carmagnole, auld Satan,
    Watches, like baudrons by a r...

Robert Burns

Address To The Deil

"O Prince! O Chief of many throned Pow'rs,
That led th' embattled Seraphim to war."

Milton


    O thou! whatever title suit thee,
    Auld Hornie, Satan, Kick, or Clootie,
    Wha in yon cavern grim an' sootie,
        Closed under hatches,
    Spairges about the brunstane cootie,
        To scaud poor wretches!

    Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee,
    An' let poor damned bodies be;
    I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie,
        E'en to a deil,
    To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me,
        An' hear us squeel!

    Great is thy pow'r, an' great thy fame;
    Far kend an' noted is thy name;
    An' tho' yon lowin heugh's thy hame,
        Thou travels far;
    An', faith! thou's neither lag nor lame,
        No...

Robert Burns

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

Epistle To Major Logan.

    Hail, thairm-inspirin', rattlin' Willie!
    Though fortune's road be rough an' hilly
    To every fiddling, rhyming billie,
        We never heed,
    But tak' it like the unback'd filly,
        Proud o' her speed.

    When idly goavan whyles we saunter
    Yirr, fancy barks, awa' we canter
    Uphill, down brae, till some mishanter,
        Some black bog-hole,
    Arrests us, then the scathe an' banter
        We're forced to thole.

    Hale be your heart! Hale be your fiddle!
    Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle,
    To cheer you through the weary widdle
        O' this wild warl',
    Until you on a crummock driddle
        A gray-hair'd carl.

    Come wealth, come poortith, late or soon,
    Heaven send your hear...

Robert Burns