On A Scotch Bard, Gone To The West Indies.

    A' ye wha live by sowps o' drink,
    A' ye wha live by crambo-clink,
    A' ye wha live and never think,
        Come, mourn wi' me!
    Our billie's gien us a' a jink,
        An' owre the sea.

    Lament him a' ye rantin' core,
    Wha dearly like a random-splore,
    Nae mair he'll join the merry roar
        In social key;
    For now he's taen anither shore,
        An' owre the sea!

    The bonnie lasses weel may wiss him,
    And in their dear petitions place him;
    The widows, wives, an' a' may bless him,
        Wi' tearfu' e'e;
    For weel I wat they'll sairly miss him
        That's owre the sea!

    O Fortune, they hae room to grumble!
    Hadst thou taen' aff some drowsy bummle
    Wha can do nought but fyke and fumble,
        'Twad been nae plea,
    But he was gleg as onie wumble,
        That's owre the sea!

    Auld, cantie Kyle may weepers wear,
    An' stain them wi' the saut, saut tear;
    'Twill mak her poor auld heart, I fear,
        In flinders flee;
    He was her laureate monie a year,
        That's owre the sea!

    He saw Misfortune's cauld nor-west
    Lang mustering up a bitter blast;
    A jillet brak his heart at last,
        Ill may she be!
    So, took a birth afore the mast,
        An' owre the sea.

    To tremble under fortune's cummock,
    On scarce a bellyfu' o' drummock,
    Wi' his proud, independent stomach,
        Could ill agree;
    So, row't his hurdies in a hammock,
        An' owre the sea.

    He ne'er was gien to great misguiding,
    Yet coin his pouches wad na bide in;
    Wi' him it ne'er was under hiding:
        He dealt it free;
    The muse was a' that he took pride in,
        That's owre the sea.

    Jamaica bodies, use him weel,
    An' hap him in a cozie biel;
    Ye'll find him ay a dainty chiel,
        And fou o' glee;
    He wad na wrang'd the vera deil,
        That's owre the sea.

    Fareweel, my rhyme-composing billie!
    Your native soil was right ill-willie;
    But may ye flourish like a lily,
        Now bonnilie!
    I'll toast ye in my hindmost gillie,
        Tho' owre the sea!

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 Holy Fair.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

To Robert Graham, Esq., Of Fintray.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Country Lassie.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

The Young Highland Rover.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

English

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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,
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        Proud o' her speed.

    When idly goavan whyles we saunter
    Yirr, fancy barks, awa' we canter
    Uphill, down brae, till some mishanter,
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        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,
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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

To James Smith.

    "Friendship! mysterious cement of the soul!
    Sweet'ner of life and solder of society!
    I owe thee much!"

Blair.


    Dear Smith, the sleest, paukie thief,
    That e'er attempted stealth or rief,
    Ye surely hae some warlock-breef
    Owre human hearts;
    For ne'er a bosom yet was prief
    Against your arts.

    For me, I swear by sun an' moon,
    And ev'ry star that blinks aboon,
    Ye've cost me twenty pair o' shoon
    Just gaun to see you;
    And ev'ry ither pair that's done,
    Mair ta'en I'm wi' you.

    That auld capricious carlin, Nature,
    To mak amends for scrimpit stature,
    She's turn'd you aff, a human creature
    On her first plan;
    And in her freaks, on every feature

Robert Burns

Address To The Deil

"O Prince! O Chief of many throned Pow'rs,
That led th' embattled Seraphim to war."

Milton


    O thou! whatever title suit thee,
    Auld Hornie, Satan, Kick, or Clootie,
    Wha in yon cavern grim an' sootie,
        Closed under hatches,
    Spairges about the brunstane cootie,
        To scaud poor wretches!

    Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee,
    An' let poor damned bodies be;
    I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie,
        E'en to a deil,
    To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me,
        An' hear us squeel!

    Great is thy pow'r, an' great thy fame;
    Far kend an' noted is thy name;
    An' tho' yon lowin heugh's thy hame,
        Thou travels far;
    An', faith! thou's neither lag nor lame,
        No...

Robert Burns

Scotch Drink.

    "Gie him strong drink, until he wink,
        That's sinking in despair;
    An' liquor guid to fire his bluid,
        That's prest wi' grief an' care;
    There let him bouse, an' deep carouse,
        Wi' bumpers flowing o'er,
    Till he forgets his loves or debts,
        An' minds his griefs no more."

Solomon's Proverb, xxxi. 6, 7.


    Let other poets raise a fracas
    'Bout vines, an' wines, an' dru'ken Bacchus,
    An' crabbit names and stories wrack us,
        An' grate our lug,
    I sing the juice Scotch bear can mak us,
        In glass or jug.

    O, thou, my Muse! guid auld Scotch drink;
    Whether thro' wimplin' worms thou jink,
    Or, richly brown, ream o'er the brink,
        In glorious faem,
   ...

Robert Burns

The Auld Farmer's - New-Year Morning Salutation To His Auld Mare Maggie, On Giving Her The Accustomed Ripp Of Corn To Hansel In The New Year

    A guid New-year I wish thee, Maggie!
    Hae, there's a rip to thy auld baggie:
    Tho' thou's howe-backit, now, an' knaggie,
        I've seen the day
    Thou could hae gaen like onie staggie
        Out-owre the lay.

    Tho' now thou's dowie, stiff, an' crazy,
    An' thy auld hide as white's a daisy,
    I've seen thee dappl't, sleek, and glaizie,
        A bonny gray:
    He should been tight that daur't to raize thee,
        Ance in a day.

    Thou ance was i' the foremost rank,
    A filly, buirdly, steeve, an' swank,
    An set weel down a shapely shank,
        As e'er tread yird;
    An' could hae flown out-owre a stank,
        Like ony bird.

    It's now some nine-an'-twenty year,
    Sin' thou was my guid-fa...

Robert Burns