The Laddies By The Banks O' Nith.

    The laddies by the banks o' Nith,
        Wad trust his Grace wi' a', Jamie,
    But he'll sair them, as he sair'd the King,
        Turn tail and rin awa', Jamie.

    Up and waur them a', Jamie,
        Up and waur them a';
    The Johnstones hae the guidin' o't,
        Ye turncoat Whigs awa'.

    The day he stude his country's friend,
        Or gied her faes a claw, Jamie:
    Or frae puir man a blessin' wan,
        That day the Duke ne'er saw, Jamie.

    But wha is he, his country's boast?
        Like him there is na twa, Jamie,
    There's no a callant tents the kye,
        But kens o' Westerha', Jamie.

    To end the wark here's Whistlebirk,^[1]
        Lang may his whistle blaw, Jamie;
    And Maxwell true o' sterling blue:
        And we'll be Johnstones a', Jamie.

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

Our Thrissles Flourished Fresh And Fair.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Forlorn, My Love, No Comfort Near.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Poetical Address To Mr. W. Tytler, With The Present Of The Bard's Picture.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Come Boat Me O'Er To Charlie.

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.

There Was A Lass.

Tune - "Duncan Davison."


I.

    There was a lass, they ca'd her Meg,
        And she held o'er the moors to spin;
    There was a lad that follow'd her,
        They ca'd him Duncan Davison.
    The moor was driegh, and Meg was skiegh,
        Her favour Duncan could na win;
    For wi' the roke she wad him knock.
        And ay she shook the temper-pin.

II.

    As o'er the moor they lightly foor,
        A burn was clear, a glen was green,
    Upon the banks they eas'd-their shanks,
        And ay she set the wheel between:
    But Duncan swore a haly aith,
        That Meg should be a bride the morn,
    Then Meg took up her spinnin' graith,
        And flang them a' out o'er the burn.

III.

Robert Burns

Young Jamie, Pride Of A' The Plain.

Tune - "The carlin o' the glen."


I.

    Young Jamie, pride of a' the plain,
    Sae gallant and sae gay a swain;
    Thro' a' our lasses he did rove,
    And reign'd resistless king of love:
    But now wi' sighs and starting tears,
    He strays amang the woods and briers;
    Or in the glens and rocky caves
    His sad complaining dowie raves.

II.

    I wha sae late did range and rove,
    And chang'd with every moon my love,
    I little thought the time was near,
    Repentance I should buy sae dear:
    The slighted maids my torment see,
    And laugh at a' the pangs I dree;
    While she, my cruel, scornfu' fair,
    Forbids me e'er to see her mair!

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

My Collier Laddie.

Tune - "The Collier Laddie."


I.

    Where live ye, my bonnie lass?
        An' tell me what they ca' ye;
    My name, she says, is Mistress Jean,
        And I follow the Collier Laddie.
    My name she says, is Mistress Jean,
        And I follow the Collier Laddie.

II.

    See you not yon hills and dales,
        The sun shines on sae brawlie!
    They a' are mine, and they shall be thine,
        Gin ye'll leave your Collier Laddie.
    They a' are mine, and they shall be thine,
        Gin ye'll leave your Collier Laddie.

III.

    Ye shall gang in gay attire,
        Weel buskit up sae gaudy;
    And ane to wait on every hand,
        Gin ye'll leave your Collier Laddie.
    And ane to wa...

Robert Burns

Country Lassie.

Tune - "The Country Lass."


I.

    In simmer, when the hay was mawn,
        And corn wav'd green in ilka field,
    While claver blooms white o'er the lea,
        And roses blaw in ilka bield;
    Blithe Bessie in the milking shiel,
        Says, I'll be wed, come o't what will;
    Out spak a dame in wrinkled eild
        O' guid advisement comes nae ill.

II.

    It's ye hae wooers mony ane,
        And, lassie, ye're but young ye ken;
    Then wait a wee, and cannie wale,
        A routhie butt, a routhie ben:
    There's Johnie o' the Buskie-glen,
        Fu' is his burn, fu' is his byre;
    Tak this frae me, my bonnie hen,
        It's plenty beets the luver's fire.

III.

    For Johnie ...

Robert Burns

Epistle To J. Rankine, Enclosing Some Poems.

    O rough, rude, ready-witted Rankine,
    The wale o' cocks for fun an' drinkin'!
    There's monie godly folks are thinkin',
        Your dreams^[1] an' tricks
    Will send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin'
        Straught to auld Nick's.

    Ye hae sae monie cracks an' cants,
    And in your wicked, dru'ken rants,
    Ye mak a devil o' the saunts,
        An' fill them fou;
    And then their failings, flaws, an' wants,
        Are a' seen through.

    Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it!
    That holy robe, O dinna tear it!
    Spare't for their sakes wha aften wear it,
        The lads in black!
    But your curst wit, when it comes near it,
        Rives't aff their back.

    Think, wicked sinner, wha ye're skaithing,
   ...

Robert Burns