Impromptu.

    You're welcome, Willie Stewart,
    You're welcome, Willie Stewart;
    There's ne'er a flower that blooms in May,
    That's half sae welcome's thou art.

    Come bumpers high, express your joy,
        The bowl we maun renew it;
    The tappit-hen, gae bring her ben,
        To welcome Willie Stewart.

    My foes be strang, and friends be slack,
        Ilk action may he rue it,
    May woman on him turn her back,
        That wrongs thee, Willie Stewart.

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

I Dream'd I Lay.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

A Bard's Epitaph.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

The Banks Of Nith.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Weary Fa' You, Duncan Gray.

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.

Lovely Polly Stewart.

Tune - "Ye're welcome, Charlie Stewart."



I.

    O lovely Polly Stewart!
        O charming Polly Stewart!
    There's not a flower that blooms in May
        That's half so fair as thou art.
    The flower it blaws, it fades and fa's,
        And art can ne'er renew it;
    But worth and truth eternal youth
        Will give to Polly Stewart.

II.

    May he whose arms shall fauld thy charms
        Possess a leal and true heart;
    To him be given to ken the heaven
        He grasps in Polly Stewart.
    O lovely Polly Stewart!
        O charming Polly Stewart!
    There's ne'er a flower that blooms in May
        That's half so sweet as thou art.

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

To Mrs. Scott, Of Wauchope.

    I mind it weel in early date,
    When I was beardless, young and blate,
        An' first could thresh the barn;
    Or hand a yokin at the pleugh;
    An' tho' forfoughten sair enough,
        Yet unco proud to learn:
    When first amang the yellow corn
        A man I reckon'd was,
    An' wi' the lave ilk merry morn
        Could rank my rig and lass,
            Still shearing, and clearing,
                The tither stooked raw,
            Wi' claivers, an' haivers,
                Wearing the day awa.

    E'en then, a wish, I mind its pow'r,
    A wish that to my latest hour
        Shall strongly heave my breast,
    That I for poor auld Scotland's sake
    Some usefu' plan or beuk could make,
        Or sing a sang at least...

Robert Burns

Epistle To William Creech.

Selkirk, 13 May, 1787.

    Auld chukie Reekie's^[1] sair distrest,
    Down droops her ance weel-burnisht crest,
    Nae joy her bonnie buskit nest
        Can yield ava,
    Her darling bird that she lo'es best,
        Willie's awa!

    O Willie was a witty wight,
    And had o' things an unco slight;
    Auld Reekie ay he keepit tight,
        An' trig an' braw:
    But now they'll busk her like a fright,
        Willie's awa!

    The stiffest o' them a' he bow'd;
    The bauldest o' them a' he cow'd;
    They durst nae mair than he allow'd,
        That was a law;
    We've lost a birkie weel worth gowd,
        Willie's awa!

    Now gawkies, tawpies, gowks, and fools,
    Frae colleges an...

Robert Burns

Contented Wi' Little.

Tune - "Lumps o' Pudding."


I.

    Contented wi' little, and cantie wi' mair,
    Whene'er I forgather wi' sorrow end care,
    I gie them a skelp, as they're creepin alang,
    Wi' a cog o' guid swats, and an auld Scottish sang.

II.

    I whyles claw the elbow o' troublesome thought;
    But man is a sodger, and life is a faught:
    My mirth and guid humour are coin in my pouch,
    And my freedom's my lairdship nae monarch dare touch.

III.

    A towmond o' trouble, should that be my fa',
    A night o' guid fellowship sowthers it a':
    When at the blithe end o' our journey at last,
    Wha the deil ever thinks o' the road he has past?

IV.

    Blind chance, let her snapper and stoyte on her w...

Robert Burns

Willie Chalmers.

I.

    Wi' braw new branks in mickle pride,
        And eke a braw new brechan,
    My Pegasus I'm got astride,
        And up Parnassus pechin;
    Whiles owre a bush wi' downward crush
        The doitie beastie stammers;
    Then up he gets and off he sets
        For sake o' Willie Chalmers.

II.

    I doubt na, lass, that weel kenn'd name
        May cost a pair o' blushes;
    I am nae stranger to your fame,
        Nor his warm urged wishes.
    Your bonnie face sae mild and sweet
        His honest heart enamours,
    And faith ye'll no be lost a whit,
        Tho' waired on Willie Chalmers.

III.

    Auld Truth hersel' might swear ye're fair,
        And Honour safely back her,
    And Modesty assum...

Robert Burns