On A Celebrated Ruling Elder.

    Here souter Hood in death does sleep;
        To h--ll, if he's gane thither,
    Satan, gie him thy gear to keep,
        He'll haud it weel thegither.

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

The Joyful Widower.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

On Chloris Being Ill.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

The Highland Laddie.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

On The Death Of Robert Dundas, Esq., Of Arniston, Late Lord President Of The Court Of Session.

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.

Address Of Beelzebub To The President Of The Highland Society.

    Long life, my Lord, an' health be yours,
    Unskaith'd by hunger'd Highland boors;
    Lord grant mae duddie desperate beggar,
    Wi' dirk, claymore, or rusty trigger,
    May twin auld Scotland o' a life
    She likes, as lambkins like a knife.
    Faith, you and A----s were right
    To keep the Highland hounds in sight;
    I doubt na! they wad bid nae better
    Than let them ance out owre the water;
    Then up among the lakes and seas
    They'll mak' what rules and laws they please;
    Some daring Hancock, or a Franklin';
    May set their Highland bluid a ranklin';
    Some Washington again may head them,
    Or some Montgomery fearless lead them,
    Till God knows what may be effected
    When by such heads and hearts directed,
    P...

Robert Burns

Letter To James Tennant, Of Glenconner.

    Auld comrade dear, and brither sinner,
    How's a' the folk about Glenconner?
    How do you this blae eastlin wind,
    That's like to blaw a body blind?
    For me, my faculties are frozen,
    My dearest member nearly dozen'd,
    I've sent you here, by Johnie Simson,
    Twa sage philosophers to glimpse on;
    Smith, wi' his sympathetic feeling,
    An' Reid, to common sense appealing.
    Philosophers have fought and wrangled,
    An' meikle Greek and Latin mangled,
    Till wi' their logic-jargon tir'd,
    An' in the depth of science mir'd,
    To common sense they now appeal,
    What wives and wabsters see and feel.
    But, hark ye, friend! I charge you strictly
    Peruse them, an' return them quickly,
    For now I'm grown sae curse...

Robert Burns

On A Suicide.

    Earth'd up here lies an imp o' hell,
        Planted by Satan's dibble,
    Poor silly wretch, he's damn'd himsel'
        To save the Lord the trouble.

Robert Burns

Ode Sacred To The Memory Of Mrs. Oswald, Of Auchencruive.

    Dweller in yon dungeon dark,
    Hangman of creation, mark!
    Who in widow-weeds appears,
    Laden with unhonoured years,
    Noosing with care a bursting purse,
    Baited with many a deadly curse?

Strophe.

    View the wither'd beldam's face,
    Can thy keen inspection trace
    Aught of Humanity's sweet melting grace?
    Note that eye, 'tis rheum o'erflows,
    Pity's flood there never rose.
    See these hands, ne'er stretch'd to save,
    Hands that took, but never gave.
    Keeper of Mammon's iron chest,
    Lo, there she goes, unpitied and unblest
    She goes, but not to realms of everlasting rest!

Antistrophe.

    Plunderer of armies, lift thine eyes,
    (Awhile forbear, ye tort'ring fiends;)
    S...

Robert Burns

On R.A., Esq.

    Know thou, O stranger to the fame
    Of this much lov'd, much honour'd name!
    (For none that knew him need be told)
    A warmer heart death ne'er made cold.

Robert Burns

Epistle To A Young Friend. - May, 1786.

I.

    I lang hae thought, my youthfu' friend,
        A something to have sent you,
    Though it should serve nae ither end
        Than just a kind memento;
    But how the subject-theme may gang,
        Let time and chance determine;
    Perhaps it may turn out a sang,
        Perhaps, turn out a sermon.

II.

    Ye'll try the world soon, my lad,
        And, Andrew dear, believe me,
    Ye'll find mankind an unco squad,
        And muckle they may grieve ye:
    For care and trouble set your thought,
        Ev'n when your end's attain'd;
    And a' your views may come to nought,
        Where ev'ry nerve is strained.

III.

    I'll no say men are villains a';
        The real, harden'd wicked,
    Wha...

Robert Burns