O Leave Novels.

Tune - "Mauchline belles."


I.

    O leave novels, ye Mauchline belles,
        Ye're safer at your spinning-wheel;
    Such witching books are baited hooks
        For rakish rooks, like Rob Mossgiel.

II.

    Your fine Tom Jones and Grandisons,
        They make your youthful fancies reel;
    They heat your brains, and fire your veins,
        And then you're prey for Rob Mossgiel.

III.

    Beware a tongue that's smoothly hung,
        A heart that warmly seems to feel;
    That feeling heart but acts a part,
        'Tis rakish art in Rob Mossgiel.

IV.

    The frank address, the soft caress,
        Are worse than poison'd darts of steel;
    The frank address and politesse
        Are all finesse in Rob Mossgiel.

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

My Ain Kind Dearie O.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

How Long And Dreary Is The Night.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Address Of Beelzebub To The President Of The Highland Society.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Verses Written On A Window Of The Inn At Carron.

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.

Auld Rob Morris.

I.

    There's auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen,
    He's the king o' guid fellows and wale of auld men;
    He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and kine,
    And ae bonnie lassie, his darling and mine.

II.

    She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May;
    She's sweet as the ev'ning amang the new hay;
    As blythe and as artless as the lamb on the lea,
    And dear to my heart as the light to my e'e.

III.

    But oh! she's an heiress, auld Robin's a laird,
    And my daddie has nought but a cot-house and yard;
    A wooer like me mamma hope to come speed;
    The wounds I must hide that will soon be my dead.

IV.

    The day comes to me, but delight brings me nane;
    The night comes to me, but my...

Robert Burns

On Captain Grose's Peregrinations Through Scotland, Collecting The Antiquities Of That Kingdom.

    Hear, Land o' Cakes and brither Scots,
    Frae Maidenkirk to Johnny Groat's;
    If there's a hole in a' your coats,
        I rede you tent it:
    A chiel's amang you taking notes,
        And, faith, he'll prent it!

    If in your bounds ye chance to light
    Upon a fine, fat, fodgel wight,
    O' stature short, but genius bright,
        That's he, mark weel,
    And wow! he has an unco slight
        O' cauk and keel.

    By some auld, houlet-haunted biggin,
    Or kirk deserted by its riggin,
    It's ten to one ye'll find him snug in
        Some eldritch part,
    Wi' deils, they say, L--d save's! colleaguin'
        At some black art.

    Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha' or chaumer,
    Ye gipsey-gang that deal in...

Robert Burns

Country Lassie.

Tune - "The Country Lass."


I.

    In simmer, when the hay was mawn,
        And corn wav'd green in ilka field,
    While claver blooms white o'er the lea,
        And roses blaw in ilka bield;
    Blithe Bessie in the milking shiel,
        Says, I'll be wed, come o't what will;
    Out spak a dame in wrinkled eild
        O' guid advisement comes nae ill.

II.

    It's ye hae wooers mony ane,
        And, lassie, ye're but young ye ken;
    Then wait a wee, and cannie wale,
        A routhie butt, a routhie ben:
    There's Johnie o' the Buskie-glen,
        Fu' is his burn, fu' is his byre;
    Tak this frae me, my bonnie hen,
        It's plenty beets the luver's fire.

III.

    For Johnie ...

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

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

Epistle To Hugh Parker.

    In this strange land, this uncouth clime,
    A land unknown to prose or rhyme;
    Where words ne'er crost the muse's heckles,
    Nor limpet in poetic shackles:
    A land that prose did never view it,
    Except when drunk he stacher't thro' it,
    Here, ambush'd by the chimla cheek,
    Hid in an atmosphere of reek,
    I hear a wheel thrum i' the neuk,
    I hear it, for in vain I leuk.
    The red peat gleams, a fiery kernel,
    Enhusked by a fog infernal:
    Here, for my wonted rhyming raptures,
    I sit and count my sins by chapters;
    For life and spunk like ither Christians,
    I'm dwindled down to mere existence,
    Wi' nae converse but Gallowa' bodies,
    Wi' nae kend face but Jenny Geddes.^[1]
    Jenny, my Pegasea...

Robert Burns