Nithsdale's Welcome Hame.

I.

    The noble Maxwells and their powers
        Are coming o'er the border,
    And they'll gae bigg Terreagle's towers,
        An' set them a' in order.
    And they declare Terreagles fair,
        For their abode they chuse it;
    There's no a heart in a' the land,
        But's lighter at the news o't.

II.

    Tho' stars in skies may disappear,
        And angry tempests gather;
    The happy hour may soon be near
        That brings us pleasant weather:
    The weary night o' care and grief
        May hae a joyful morrow;
    So dawning day has brought relief
        Fareweel our night o' sorrow!

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

Written In Friars-Carse Hermitage, On The Banks Of Nith. June. 1788. (First Copy.)

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Elegy On Miss Burnet, Of Monboddo.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Fragment Inscribed To The Right Hon. C.J. Fox.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Montgomery's Peggy.

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.

The Humble Petition Of Bruar Water To The Noble Duke Of Athole.

I.

    My Lord, I know your noble ear
        Woe ne'er assails in vain;
    Embolden'd thus, I beg you'll hear
        Your humble slave complain,
    How saucy Phoebus' scorching beams
        In flaming summer-pride,
    Dry-withering, waste my foamy streams,
        And drink my crystal tide.

II.

    The lightly-jumpin' glowrin' trouts,
        That thro' my waters play,
    If, in their random, wanton spouts,
        They near the margin stray;
    If, hapless chance! they linger lang,
        I'm scorching up so shallow,
    They're left the whitening stanes amang,
        In gasping death to wallow.

III.

    Last day I grat wi' spite and teen,
        As Poet Burns came by,
    That to a bard I shou...

Robert Burns

Ca' The Yowes.

I.

    Ca' the yowes to the knowes,
    Ca' them whare the heather growes,
    Ca' them whare the burnie rowes -
        My bonnie dearie!
    Hark the mavis' evening sang
    Sounding Cluden's woods amang!
    Then a faulding let us gang,
        My bonnie dearie.

II.

    We'll gae down by Cluden side,
    Thro' the hazels spreading wide,
    O'er the waves that sweetly glide
        To the moon sae clearly.

III.

    Yonder Cluden's silent towers,
    Where at moonshine midnight hours,
    O'er the dewy bending flowers,
        Fairies dance so cheery.

IV.

    Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear;
    Thou'rt to love and heaven sae dear,
    Nocht of ill may come thee near,
        My bo...

Robert Burns

The Gloomy Night.

Tune - "Roslin Castle."


I.

    The gloomy night is gath'ring fast,
    Loud roars the wild inconstant blast;
    Yon murky cloud is foul with rain,
    I see it driving o'er the plain;
    The hunter now has left the moor,
    The scatter'd coveys meet secure;
    While here I wander, prest with care,
    Along the lonely banks of Ayr.

II.

    The Autumn mourns her rip'ning corn,
    By early Winter's ravage torn;
    Across her placid, azure sky,
    She sees the scowling tempest fly:
    Chill runs my blood to hear it rave,
    I think upon the stormy wave,
    Where many a danger I must dare,
    Far from the bonnie banks of Ayr.

III.

    'Tis not the surging billow's roar,
    'Tis n...

Robert Burns

The Tither Moon.

To a Highland Air.


I.

                The tither morn,
                When I forlorn,
    Aneath an oak sat moaning,
                I did na trow
                I'd see my Jo,
    Beside me, gain the gloaming.
                But he sae trig,
                Lap o'er the rig.
    And dawtingly did cheer me,
                When I, what reck,
                Did least expec',
    To see my lad so near me.

II.

                His bonnet he,
                A thought ajee,
    Cock'd sprush when first he clasp'd me;
                And I, I wat,
                Wi' fainness grat,
    While in his grips be press'd me.
                Deil tak' the war!
                I late and air
    Hae...

Robert Burns

The Brigs Of Ayr, A Poem, Inscribed To J. Ballantyne, Esq., Ayr.

    The simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough,
    Learning his tuneful trade from ev'ry bough;
    The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush,
    Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the green thorn bush:
    The soaring lark, the perching red-breast shrill,
    Or deep-ton'd plovers, gray, wild-whistling o'er the hill;
    Shall he, nurst in the peasant's lowly shed,
    To hardy independence bravely bred,
    By early poverty to hardship steel'd,
    And train'd to arms in stern misfortune's field,
    Shall he be guilty of their hireling crimes,
    The servile, mercenary Swiss of rhymes?
    Or labour hard the panegyric close,
    With all the venal soul of dedicating prose?
    No! though his artless strains he rudely sings,
    And throws his hand uncouthly ...

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