O Willie Brew'd.

Tune - "Willie brew'd a peck o' maut."


I.

    O, Willie brew'd a peck o' maut,
        And Rob and Allan came to see:
    Three blither hearts, that lee-lang night
        Ye wad na find in Christendie.
                We are na fou, we're no that fou,
                    But just a drappie in our e'e;
                The cock may craw, the day may daw,
                    And aye we'll taste the barley bree.

II.

    Here are we met, three merry boys,
        Three merry boys, I trow, are we;
    And mony a night we've merry been,
        And mony mae we hope to be!

III.

    It is the moon--I ken her horn,
        That's blinkin in the lift sae hie;
    She shines sae bright to wyle us hame,
        But, by my sooth, she'll wait a wee!

IV.

    Wha first shall rise to gang awa',
        A cuckold, coward loon is he!
    Wha last beside his chair shall fa',
        He is the king amang us three!
                We are na fou, we're no that fou,
                    But just a drappie in our e'e;
                The cock may craw, the day may daw,
                    And aye we'll taste the barley bree.

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

O Bonnie Was Yon Rosy Brier.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Wae Is My Heart.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Logan Water.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Ye Jacobites By Name.

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.

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

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

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

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

Willie Wastle.

Tune - "The eight men of Moidart."


I.

    Willie Wastle dwalt on Tweed,
        The spot they call'd it Linkum-doddie.
    Willie was a wabster guid,
        Cou'd stown a clue wi' onie bodie;
    He had a wife was dour and din,
        O Tinkler Madgie was her mither;
    Sic a wife as Willie had,
        I wad nae gie a button for her.

II.

    She has an e'e, she has but ane,
        The cat has twa the very colour;
    Five rusty teeth, forbye a stump,
        A clapper-tongue wad deave a miller:
    A whiskin' beard about her mou',
        Her nose and chin they threaten ither
    Sic a wife as Willie had,
        I wad nae gie a button for her.

III.

    She's bow hough'd, she's hem shinn...

Robert Burns

Last May A Braw Wooer.

Tune - "The Lothian Lassie."


I.

    Last May a braw wooer cam down the lang glen,
        And sair wi' his love he did deave me;
    I said there was naething I hated like men,
        The deuce gae wi'm, to believe, believe me,
        The deuce gae wi'm, to believe me!

II.

    He spak o' the darts in my bonnie black een,
        And vow'd for my love, he was dying;
    I said he might die when he liked for Jean,
        The Lord forgie me for lying, for lying,
        The Lord forgie me for lying!

III.

    A weel-stocked mailen - himsel' for the laird -
        And marriage aff-hand, were his proffers:
    I never loot on that I kenn'd it, or car'd,
        But thought I may hae waur offers, waur offers,<...

Robert Burns