Spoken, On Being Appointed To The Excise.

    Searching auld wives' barrels,
        Och, hon! the day!
    That clarty barm should stain my laurels;
        But, what'll ye say!
    These movin' things ca'd wives and weans
    Wad move the very hearts o' stanes!

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 Robert Riddel.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

To James Smith.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Address Of Beelzebub To The President Of The Highland Society.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Braving Angry Winter's Storms.

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

The Inventory; - In Answer To A Mandate By The Surveyor Of The Taxes.

    Sir, as your mandate did request,
    I send you here a faithfu' list,
    O' gudes, an' gear, an' a' my graith,
    To which I'm clear to gi'e my aith.

        Imprimis, then, for carriage cattle,
    I have four brutes o' gallant mettle,
    As ever drew afore a pettle.
    My lan' afore's^[1] a gude auld has been,
    An' wight, an' wilfu' a' his days been.
    My lan ahin's^[2] a weel gaun fillie,
    That aft has borne me hame frae Killie,^[3]
    An' your auld burro' mony a time,
    In days when riding was nae crime,
    But ance, whan in my wooing pride,
    I like a blockhead boost to ride,
    The wilfu' creature sae I pat to,
    (L--d pardon a' my sins an' that too!)
    I play'd my fillie sic a s...

Robert Burns

Poem, Addressed To Mr. Mitchell, Collector Of Excise. Dumfries, 1796.

    Friend of the Poet, tried and leal,
    Wha, wanting thee, might beg or steal;
    Alake, alake, the meikle deil
        Wi' a' his witches
    Are at it, skelpin' jig and reel,
        In my poor pouches!

    I modestly fu' fain wad hint it,
    That one pound one, I sairly want it,
    If wi' the hizzie down ye sent it,
        It would be kind;
    And while my heart wi' life-blood dunted
        I'd bear't in mind.

    So may the auld year gang out moaning
    To see the new come laden, groaning,
    Wi' double plenty o'er the loanin
        To thee and thine;
    Domestic peace and comforts crowning
        The hale design.

Postscript.

    Ye've heard this while how I've been licket,
    And by felt death wa...

Robert Burns

Answer To A Poetical Epistle Sent To The Author By A Tailor.

    What ails ye now, ye lousie b----h,
    To thresh my back at sic a pitch?
    Losh, man! hae mercy wi' your natch,
        Your bodkin's bauld,
    I didna suffer ha'f sae much
        Frae Daddie Auld.

    What tho' at times when I grow crouse,
    I gie their wames a random pouse,
    Is that enough for you to souse
        Your servant sae?
    Gae mind your seam, ye prick-the-louse,
        An' jag-the-flae.

    King David o' poetic brief,
    Wrought 'mang the lasses sic mischief,
    As fill'd his after life wi' grief,
        An' bluidy rants,
    An' yet he's rank'd amang the chief
        O' lang-syne saunts.

    And maybe, Tam, for a' my cants,
    My wicked rhymes, an' druken rants,
    I'll gie auld cloven ...

Robert Burns

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,
    But tak' it like the unback'd filly,
        Proud o' her speed.

    When idly goavan whyles we saunter
    Yirr, fancy barks, awa' we canter
    Uphill, down brae, till some mishanter,
        Some black bog-hole,
    Arrests us, then the scathe an' banter
        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,
    Heaven send your hear...

Robert Burns

Last May A Braw Wooer.

Tune - "The Lothian Lassie."


I.

    Last May a braw wooer cam down the lang glen,
        And sair wi' his love he did deave me;
    I said there was naething I hated like men,
        The deuce gae wi'm, to believe, believe me,
        The deuce gae wi'm, to believe me!

II.

    He spak o' the darts in my bonnie black een,
        And vow'd for my love, he was dying;
    I said he might die when he liked for Jean,
        The Lord forgie me for lying, for lying,
        The Lord forgie me for lying!

III.

    A weel-stocked mailen - himsel' for the laird -
        And marriage aff-hand, were his proffers:
    I never loot on that I kenn'd it, or car'd,
        But thought I may hae waur offers, waur offers,<...

Robert Burns