The Joyful Widower.

Tune - "Maggy Lauder."


I.

    I married with a scolding wife
        The fourteenth of November;
    She made me weary of my life,
        By one unruly member.
    Long did I bear the heavy yoke,
        And many griefs attended;
    But to my comfort be it spoke,
        Now, now her life is ended.

II.

    We liv'd full one-and-twenty years
        A man and wife together;
    At length from me her course she steer'd,
        And gone I know not whither:
    Would I could guess, I do profess,
        I speak, and do not flatter,
    Of all the woman in the world,
        I never could come at her.

III.

    Her body is bestowed well,
        A handsome grave does hide her;
    But sure her soul is not in hell,
        The deil would ne'er abide her.
    I rather think she is aloft,
        And imitating thunder;
    For why, methinks I hear her voice
        Tearing the clouds asunder.

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

How Long And Dreary Is The Night.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

A Red, Red Rose.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Bess And Her Spinning-Wheel.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

To Gavin Hamilton, Esq., Mauchline. (Recommending A Boy.)

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.

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

The Old Wife and the New

He sat beneath the curling vines
That round the gay verandah twined,
His forehead seamed with sorrows lines,
An old man with a weary mind.

His young wife, with a rosy face
And brown arms ambered by the sun,
Went flitting all about the place,
Master and mistress both in one.

What caused that old mans look of care?
Was she not blithe and fair to see?
What blacker than her raven hair,
What darker than her eyes might be?

The old man bent his weary head;
The sunlight on his gray hair shone;
His thoughts were with a woman dead
And buried, years and years agone:

The good old wife who took her stand
Beside him at the altar-side,
And walked with him, hand clasped in hand,
Through joy and sorrow till she died.

Ah, she ...

Victor James Daley

O Ay My Wife She Dang Me.

Tune - "My wife she dang me."


I.

    O ay my wife she dang me,
        And aft my wife did bang me,
    If ye gie a woman a' her will,
        Gude faith, she'll soon o'er-gang ye.
    On peace and rest my mind was bent,
        And fool I was I married;
    But never honest man's intent,
        As cursedly miscarried.

II.

    Some sairie comfort still at last,
        When a' their days are done, man;
    My pains o' hell on earth are past,
        I'm sure o' bliss aboon, man.
    O ay my wife she dang me,
        And aft my wife did bang me,
    If ye gie a woman a' her will,
        Gude faith, she'll soon o'er-gang ye.

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 Young Widow.

^[1]

A husband's death brings always sighs;
The widow sobs, sheds tears - then dries.
Of Time the sadness borrows wings;
And Time returning pleasure brings.
Between the widow of a year
And of a day, the difference
Is so immense,
That very few who see her
Would think the laughing dame
And weeping one the same.
The one puts on repulsive action,
The other shows a strong attraction.
The one gives up to sighs, or true or false;
The same sad note is heard, whoever calls.
Her grief is inconsolable,
They say. Not so our fable,
Or, rather, not so says the truth.

To other worlds a husband went
And left his wife in prime of youth.
Above his dying couch she bent,
And cried, 'My love, O wait for me!
My soul would gladly g...

Jean de La Fontaine

To Mary In Heaven.

Tune - "Death of Captain Cook."


I.

    Thou lingering star, with less'ning ray,
        That lov'st to greet the early morn,
    Again thou usherest in the day
        My Mary from my soul was torn.
    O Mary! dear departed shade!
        Where is thy place of blissful rest?
    Seest thou thy lover lowly laid?
        Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

II.

    That sacred hour can I forget,
        Can I forget the hallow'd grove,
    Where by the winding Ayr we met,
        To live one day of parting love!
    Eternity cannot efface
        Those records dear of transports past;
    Thy image at our last embrace;
        Ah! little thought we 'twas our last!

III.

    Ayr, gurgli...

Robert Burns