On John Dove, Innkeeper, Mauchline.

    Here lies Johnny Pidgeon;
    What was his religion?
        Wha e'er desires to ken,
    To some other warl'
    Maun follow the carl,
        For here Johnny Pidgeon had nane!

    Strong ale was ablution,
    Small beer, persecution,
        A dram was memento mori;
    But a full flowing bowl
    Was the saving his soul,
        And port was celestial glory.

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

On A Suicide.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

The Mauchline Lady.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

O Wha Is She That Loves Me.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Oh, Wert Thou In The Cauld Blast.

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.

To John Kennedy.

    Now, Kennedy, if foot or horse
    E'er bring you in by Mauchline Cross,
    L--d, man, there's lasses there wad force
        A hermit's fancy.
    And down the gate in faith they're worse
        And mair unchancy.

    But as I'm sayin', please step to Dow's,
    And taste sic gear as Johnnie brews,
    Till some bit callan bring me news
        That ye are there,
    And if we dinna hae a bouze
        I'se ne'er drink mair.

    It's no I like to sit an' swallow,
    Then like a swine to puke and wallow,
    But gie me just a true good fellow,
        Wi' right ingine,
    And spunkie ance to make us mellow,
        And then we'll shine.

    Now if ye're ane o' warl's folk,
    Wha rate the wearer by the cloak,
    ...

Robert Burns

Epitaph.

    Here brewer Gabriel's fire's extinct,
        And empty all his barrels:
    He's blest, if, as he brew'd, he drink,
        In upright virtuous morals.

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

Verses To John Rankine.

    Ae day, as Death, that grusome carl,
    Was driving to the tither warl'
    A mixtie-maxtie motley squad,
    And mony a guilt-bespotted lad;
    Black gowns of each denomination,
    And thieves of every rank and station,
    From him that wears the star and garter,
    To him that wintles in a halter:
    Asham'd himsel' to see the wretches,
    He mutters, glowrin' at the bitches,
    "By G--d, I'll not be seen behint them,
    Nor 'mang the sp'ritual core present them,
    Without, at least, ae honest man,
    To grace this d--d infernal clan."
    By Adamhill a glance he threw,
    "L--d G--d!" quoth he, "I have it now,
    There's just the man I want, i' faith!"
    And quickly stoppit Rankine's breath.

Robert Burns

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,
     ...

Robert Burns

On Wee Johnny. Hic Jacet Wee Johnny.

    Whoe'er thou art, O reader, know,
        That death has murder'd Johnny!
    An' here his body lies fu' low
        For saul he ne'er had ony.

Robert Burns