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

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

Ca' The Yowes.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Musing On The Roaring Ocean.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Poetical Inscription For An Altar To Independence.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

O Saw Ye My Dearie.

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.

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

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

Tam Samson's Elegy.[1]

    "An honest man's the noblest work of God."

Pope.


    Has auld Kilmarnock seen the deil?
    Or great M'Kinlay^[2] thrawn his heel?
    Or Robinson^[3] again grown weel,
        To preach an' read?
    "Na, waur than a'!" cries ilka chiel,
        Tam Samson's dead!

    Kilmarnock lang may grunt an' grane,
    An' sigh, an' sob, an' greet her lane,
    An' cleed her bairns, man, wife, an wean,
        In mourning weed;
    To death, she's dearly paid the kane,
        Tam Samson's dead!

    The brethren o' the mystic level
    May hing their head in woefu' bevel,
    While by their nose the tears will revel,
        Like ony bead;
    Death's gien the lodge an unco devel,
        Tam Samson's ...

Robert Burns

Ca' The Yowes.

I.

    Ca' the yowes to the knowes,
    Ca' them whare the heather growes,
    Ca' them whare the burnie rowes -
        My bonnie dearie!
    Hark the mavis' evening sang
    Sounding Cluden's woods amang!
    Then a faulding let us gang,
        My bonnie dearie.

II.

    We'll gae down by Cluden side,
    Thro' the hazels spreading wide,
    O'er the waves that sweetly glide
        To the moon sae clearly.

III.

    Yonder Cluden's silent towers,
    Where at moonshine midnight hours,
    O'er the dewy bending flowers,
        Fairies dance so cheery.

IV.

    Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear;
    Thou'rt to love and heaven sae dear,
    Nocht of ill may come thee near,
        My bo...

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

On John Bushby.

    Here lies John Bushby, honest man!
    Cheat him, Devil, gin ye can.

Robert Burns