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

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

Jockey's Ta'En The Parting Kiss.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

The American War. - A Fragment.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

To Dr. Maxwell, On Jessie Staig's Recovery.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Letter To James Tennant, Of Glenconner.

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.

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

A Bacchanalian Verse.

Drink up
Your cup,
But not spill wine;
For if you
    Do,
'Tis an ill sign;

That we
Foresee
You are cloy'd here,
If so, no
    Ho,
But avoid here.

Robert Herrick

Lines Inscribed Upon A Cup Formed From A Skull. [1]

1.

Start not - nor deem my spirit fled:
In me behold the only skull,
From which, unlike a living head,
Whatever flows is never dull.


2.

I lived, I loved, I quaff'd, like thee:
I died: let earth my bones resign;
Fill up - thou canst not injure me;
The worm hath fouler lips than thine.


3.

Better to hold the sparkling grape,
Than nurse the earth-worm's slimy brood;
And circle in the goblet's shape
The drink of Gods, than reptile's food.

4.

Where once my wit, perchance, hath shone,
In aid of others' let me shine;
And when, alas! our brains are gone,
What nobler substitute than wine?


5.

Quaff while thou canst: another race,
When thou and thine, like me, are sped,

George Gordon Byron

Drink Of This Cup.

Drink of this cup;--you'll find there's a spell in
    Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality;
Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen!
    Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.
Would you forget the dark world we are in,
    Just taste of the bubble that gleams on the top of it;
But would you rise above earth, till akin
    To Immortals themselves, you must drain every drop of it;
Send round the cup--for oh there's a spell in
    Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality;
Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen!
    Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.

Never was philter formed with such power
    To charm and bewilder as this we are quaffing;
Its magic began when, in Autumn's rich hour,
    A harvest of gold in the fields it stoo...

Thomas Moore

The Whistle.

    I sing of a whistle, a whistle of worth,
    I sing of a whistle, the pride of the North,
    Was brought to the court of our good Scottish king,
    And long with this whistle all Scotland shall ring.

    Old Loda,^[1] still rueing the arm of Fingal,
    The god of the bottle sends down from his hall,
    "This whistle's your challenge, to Scotland get o'er,
    And drink them to hell, Sir! or ne'er see me more!"

    Old poets have sung, and old chronicles tell,
    What champions ventur'd, what champions fell;
    The son of great Loda was conqueror still,
    And blew on his whistle his requiem shrill.

    Till Robert, the Lord of the Cairn and the Scaur,
    Unmatch'd at the bottle, unconquer'd in war,
    He drank his poor godship as...

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