On The Same. (On A Henpecked Country Squire.)

    O Death, hadst thou but spared his life,
        Whom we this day lament,
    We freely wad exchang'd the wife,
        And a' been weel content!

    Ev'n as he is, cauld in his graff,
        The swap we yet will do't;
    Take thou the carlin's carcase aff,
        Thou'se get the soul to boot.

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 Cardin' O'T.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

The Farewell To The Brethren Of St. James's Lodge, Tarbolton.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Address To Edinburgh.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Written With A Pencil, Standing By The Fall Of Fyers, Near Loch-Ness

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.

On The Same. (On A Henpecked Country Squire.)

    One Queen Artemisia, as old stories tell,
    When depriv'd of her husband she loved so well,
    In respect for the love and affection he'd show'd her,
    She reduc'd him to dust and she drank up the powder.
    But Queen Netherplace, of a diff'rent complexion,
    When call'd on to order the fun'ral direction,
    Would have eat her dear lord, on a slender pretence,
    Not to show her respect, but to save the expense.

Robert Burns

On A Henpecked Country Squire.

    As father Adam first was fool'd,
        A case that's still too common,
    Here lies a man a woman rul'd,
        The devil rul'd the woman.

Robert Burns

The Henpecked Husband.

    Curs'd be the man, the poorest wretch in life,
    The crouching vassal to the tyrant wife!
    Who has no will but by her high permission;
    Who has not sixpence but in her possession;
    Who must to her his dear friend's secret tell;
    Who dreads a curtain lecture worse than hell!
    Were such the wife had fallen to my part,
    I'd break her spirit, or I'd break her heart;
    I'd charm her with the magic of a switch,
    I'd kiss her maids, and kick the perverse b----h.

Robert Burns

On The Same. (On Seeing The Beautiful Seat Of Lord Galloway.)

    Bright ran thy line, O Galloway,
        Thro' many a far-fam'd sire!
    So ran the far-fam'd Roman way,
        So ended in a mire.

Robert Burns

Husband, Husband.

Tune - "Jo Janet."



I.

    Husband, husband, cease your strife,
        Nor longer idly rave, sir;
    Tho' I am your wedded wife,
        Yet I am not your slave, sir.
    "One of two must still obey,
        Nancy, Nancy;
    Is it man or woman, say,
        My spouse, Nancy?"

II.

    If 'tis still the lordly word,
        Service and obedience;
    I'll desert my sov'reign lord,
        And so, good bye, allegiance!
    "Sad will I be, so bereft,
        Nancy, Nancy;
    Yet I'll try to make a shift,
        My spouse, Nancy."

III.

    My poor heart then break it must,
        My last hour I'm near it:
    When you lay me in the dust,
        Think, think, how you will...

Robert Burns

The Carle Of Kellyburn Braes.

Tune - "Kellyburn Braes."


I.

    There lived a carle on Kellyburn braes,
        (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme),
    And he had a wife was the plague o' his days;
        And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.

II.

    Ae day as the carle gaed up the lang glen,
        (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme),
    He met wi' the devil; says, "How do yow fen?"
        And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.

III.

    "I've got a bad wife, sir; that's a' my complaint;
        (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme),
    For, saving your presence, to her ye're a saint;
        And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime."

IV.

    "It's neither your stot nor ...

Robert Burns