For Gavin Hamilton.

    The poor man weeps, here Gavin sleeps,
        Whom canting wretches blam'd:
    But with such as he, where'er he be,
        May I be sav'd or damn'd!

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 Toast.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Tam, The Chapman.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

On A Schoolmaster.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

O Philly, Happy Be That Day.

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.

To Gavin Hamilton, Esq., Mauchline. (Recommending A Boy.)

Mossgiel, May 3, 1786.


I.

    I hold it, Sir, my bounden duty,
    To warn you how that Master Tootie,
        Alias, Laird M'Gaun,
    Was here to hire yon lad away
    'Bout whom ye spak the tither day,
        An' wad ha'e done't aff han':
    But lest he learn the callan tricks,
        As, faith, I muckle doubt him,
    Like scrapin' out auld Crummie's nicks,
        An' tellin' lies about them;
            As lieve then, I'd have then,
                Your clerkship he should sair,
            If sae be, ye may be
                Not fitted otherwhere.

II.

    Altho' I say't, he's gleg enough,
    An' bout a house that's rude an' rough
        The boy might learn to swear;
    But then, wi' you, he...

Robert Burns

Holy Willie's Prayer.

"And send the godly in a pet to pray."

Pope.


    O thou, wha in the heavens dost dwell,
    Wha, as it pleases best thysel',
    Sends ane to heaven, and ten to hell,
        A' for thy glory,
    And no for ony gude or ill
        They've done afore thee!

    I bless and praise thy matchless might,
    Whan thousands thou hast left in night,
    That I am here afore thy sight,
        For gifts and grace,
    A burnin' and a shinin' light
        To a' this place.

    What was I, or my generation,
    That I should get sic exaltation,
    I wha deserve sic just damnation,
        For broken laws,
    Five thousand years 'fore my creation,
        Thro' Adam's cause.

    When frae my mither's womb I fell,...

Robert Burns

A Dedication To Gavin Hamilton, Esq.

    Expect na, Sir, in this narration,
    A fleechin', fleth'rin dedication,
    To roose you up, an' ca' you guid,
    An' sprung o' great an' noble bluid,
    Because ye're surnam'd like his Grace;
    Perhaps related to the race;
    Then when I'm tir'd, and sae are ye,
    Wi' monie a fulsome, sinfu' lie,
    Set up a face, how I stop short,
    For fear your modesty be hurt.

    This may do, maun do, Sir, wi' them wha
    Maun please the great folk for a wamefou;
    For me! sae laigh I needna bow,
    For, Lord be thankit, I can plough;
    And when I downa yoke a naig,
    Then, Lord be thankit, I can beg;
    Sae I shall say, an' that's nae flatt'rin',
    It's just sic poet, an' sic patron.

    The Poet, some guid angel help him...

Robert Burns

Letter To James Tennant, Of Glenconner.

    Auld comrade dear, and brither sinner,
    How's a' the folk about Glenconner?
    How do you this blae eastlin wind,
    That's like to blaw a body blind?
    For me, my faculties are frozen,
    My dearest member nearly dozen'd,
    I've sent you here, by Johnie Simson,
    Twa sage philosophers to glimpse on;
    Smith, wi' his sympathetic feeling,
    An' Reid, to common sense appealing.
    Philosophers have fought and wrangled,
    An' meikle Greek and Latin mangled,
    Till wi' their logic-jargon tir'd,
    An' in the depth of science mir'd,
    To common sense they now appeal,
    What wives and wabsters see and feel.
    But, hark ye, friend! I charge you strictly
    Peruse them, an' return them quickly,
    For now I'm grown sae curse...

Robert Burns

To The Same, On The Author Being Threatened With His Resentment. (On Seeing The Beautiful Seat Of Lord Galloway.)

    Spare me thy vengeance, Galloway,
        In quiet let me live:
    I ask no kindness at thy hand,
        For thou hast none to give.

Robert Burns

To John Goudie Of Kilmarnock. - On The Publication Of His Essays

    O Goudie! terror of the Whigs,
    Dread of black coats and rev'rend wigs,
    Sour Bigotry, on her last legs,
        Girnin', looks back,
    Wishin' the ten Egyptian plagues
        Wad seize you quick.

    Poor gapin', glowrin' Superstition,
    Waes me! she's in a sad condition:
    Fie! bring Black Jock, her state physician,
        To see her water:
    Alas! there's ground o' great suspicion
        She'll ne'er get better.

    Auld Orthodoxy lang did grapple,
    But now she's got an unco ripple;
    Haste, gie her name up i' the chapel,
        Nigh unto death;
    See, how she fetches at the thrapple,
        An' gasps for breath.

    Enthusiasm's past redemption,
    Gaen in a gallopin' consumption,
    Not...

Robert Burns