Lines Written On A Window Of The Globe Tavern, Dumfries.

    The greybeard, old Wisdom, may boast of his treasures,
        Give me with gay Folly to live;
    I grant him his calm-blooded, time-settled pleasures,
        But Folly has raptures to give.

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

Wilt Thou Be My Dearie.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Blithe Was She.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Wae Is My Heart.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

There'll Never Be Peace.

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.

Lines Written On A Window.

    Ye men of wit and wealth, why all this sneering
    'Gainst poor Excisemen? give the cause a hearing;
    What are you, landlords' rent-rolls? teasing ledgers:
    What premiers, what? even monarchs' mighty gaugers:
    Nay, what are priests, those seeming godly wise men?
    What are they, pray, but spiritual Excisemen?

Robert Burns

Lines Written On A Bank-Note.

        Wae worth thy power, thou cursed leaf,
        Fell source o' a' my woe an' grief;
        For lack o' thee I've lost my lass,
        For lack o' thee I scrimp my glass.
        I see the children of affliction
        Unaided, through thy cursed restriction
        I've seen the oppressor's cruel smile
        Amid his hapless victim's spoil:
        And for thy potence vainly wished,
        To crush the villain in the dust.
    For lack o' thee, I leave this much-lov'd shore,
    Never, perhaps, to greet old Scotland more.

R. B.

Robert Burns

Verses Written On A Window Of The Inn At Carron.

    We came na here to view your warks
        In hopes to be mair wise,
    But only, lest we gang to hell,
        It may be nae surprise:

    For whan we tirl'd at your door,
        Your porter dought na hear us;
    Sae may, shou'd we to hell's yetts come
        Your billy Satan sair us!

Robert Burns

Written With A Pencil, Over The Chimney-Piece, In The Parlour Of The Inn At Kenmore, Taymouth.

    Admiring Nature in her wildest grace,
    These northern scenes with weary feet I trace;
    O'er many a winding dale and painful steep,
    Th' abodes of covey'd grouse and timid sheep,
    My savage journey, curious I pursue,
    'Till fam'd Breadalbane opens to my view.
    The meeting cliffs each deep-sunk glen divides,
    The woods, wild scatter'd, clothe their ample sides;
    Th' outstretching lake, embosom'd 'mong the hills,
    The eye with wonder and amazement fills;
    The Tay, meand'ring sweet in infant pride,
    The palace, rising on its verdant side;
    The lawns, wood-fring'd in Nature's native taste;
    The hillocks, dropt in Nature's careless haste;
    The arches, striding o'er the new-born stream;
    The village, glittering in the noont...

Robert Burns

Deluded Swain, The Pleasure.

I.

    Deluded swain, the pleasure
        The fickle fair can give thee,
    Is but a fairy treasure -
        Thy hopes will soon deceive thee.

II.

    The billows on the ocean,
        The breezes idly roaming,
    The clouds uncertain motion -
        They are but types of woman.

III.

    O! art thou not ashamed
        To doat upon a feature?
    If man thou wouldst be named,
        Despise the silly creature.

IV.

    Go find an honest fellow;
        Good claret set before thee:
    Hold on till thou art mellow,
        And then to bed in glory.

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