On A Schoolmaster.

    Here lie Willie Michie's banes;
        O, Satan! when ye tak' him,
    Gi' him the schoolin' o' your weans,
        For clever de'ils he'll mak' them.

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

Jessie.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

The Winsome Wee Thing.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

A Dream.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Bonnie Jean.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

English

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Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

The Dean Of Faculty. - A New Ballad.

I.

    Dire was the hate at old Harlaw,
        That Scot to Scot did carry;
    And dire the discord Langside saw,
        For beauteous, hapless Mary:
    But Scot with Scot ne'er met so hot,
        Or were more in fury seen, Sir,
    Than 'twixt Hal and Bob for the famous job,
        Who should be Faculty's Dean, Sir.

II.

    This Hal for genius, wit, and lore,
        Among the first was number'd;
    But pious Bob, 'mid learning's store,
        Commandment tenth remember'd.
    Yet simple Bob the victory got,
        And won his heart's desire;
    Which shows that heaven can boil the pot,
        Though the devil p--s in the fire.

III.

    Squire Hal besides had in this case
        Pretensions rather ...

Robert Burns

On A Wag In Mauchline.

    Lament him, Mauchline husbands a',
        He aften did assist ye;
    For had ye staid whole weeks awa,
        Your wives they ne'er had missed ye.
    Ye Mauchline bairns, as on ye press
        To school in bands thegither,
    O tread ye lightly on his grass,
        Perhaps he was your father.

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

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

Epitaph On Holy Willie.

    Here Holy Willie's sair worn clay
        Takes up its last abode;
    His saul has ta'en some other way,
        I fear the left-hand road.

    Stop! there he is, as sure's a gun,
        Poor, silly body, see him;
    Nae wonder he's as black's the grun,
        Observe wha's standing wi' him.

    Your brunstane devilship I see,
        Has got him there before ye;
    But hand your nine-tail cat a wee,
        Till ance you've heard my story.

    Your pity I will not implore,
        For pity ye hae nane;
    Justice, alas! has gi'en him o'er,
        And mercy's day is gaen.

    But hear me, sir, deil as ye are,
        Look something to your credit;
    A coof like him wad stain your name,
        If it were kent...

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