On Wat.

    Sic a reptile was Wat,
        Sic a miscreant slave,
    That the very worms damn'd him
        When laid in his grave.
    "In his flesh there's a famine,"
        A starv'd reptile cries;
    "An' his heart is rank poison,"
        Another replies.

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 Miss Jessy Lewars.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

On Sensibility. To My Dear And Much Honoured Friend, Mrs. Dunlop, Of Dunlop.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

The Bonnie Wee Thing.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

The Highland Laddie.

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.

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 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

A Winter Night.

    "Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are
    That bide the pelting of the pitiless storm!
    How shall your houseless heads and unfed sides,
    Your looped and widow'd raggedness defend you
    From seasons such as these?"

Shakspeare.


    When biting Boreas, fell and doure,
    Sharp shivers thro' the leafless bow'r;
    When Phoebus gies a short-liv'd glow'r
        Far south the lift,
    Dim-darkening through the flaky show'r,
        Or whirling drift:

    Ae night the storm the steeples rocked,
    Poor labour sweet in sleep was locked,
    While burns, wi' snawy wreeths up-choked,
        Wild-eddying swirl.
    Or through the mining outlet bocked,
        Down headlong hurl.

    Listening, the doors an' win...

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

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

    Lone on the bleaky hills the straying flocks
    Shun the fierce storms among the sheltering rocks;
    Down from the rivulets, red with dashing rains,
    The gathering floods burst o'er the distant plains;
    Beneath the blasts the leafless forests groan;
    The hollow caves return a sullen moan.

    Ye hills, ye plains, ye forests and ye caves,
    Ye howling winds, and wintry swelling waves!
    Unheard, unseen, by human ear or eye,
    Sad to your sympathetic scenes I fly;
    Where to the whistling blast and waters' roar
    Pale Scotia's recent wound I may deplore.

    O heavy loss, thy country ill could bear!
    A loss these evil days can ne'er repair!
    Justice, the high vicegerent of her God,
    Her doubtful balance ey'd, and sway'd ...

Robert Burns

On Robert Riddel.

    To Riddel, much-lamented man,
        This ivied cot was dear;
    Reader, dost value matchless worth?
        This ivied cot revere.

Robert Burns