The League And Covenant.

    The solemn League and Covenant
        Cost Scotland blood, cost Scotland tears;
    But it sealed freedom's sacred cause,
        If thou'rt a slave, indulge thy sneers.

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

To The Same, On The Author Being Threatened With His Resentment. (On Seeing The Beautiful Seat Of Lord Galloway.)

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Extempore Pinned On A Lady's Couch.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

On A Henpecked Country Squire.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

On Reading In A Newspaper The Death Of John M'Leod, Esq. Brother To A Young Lady, A Particular Friend Of The Author's.

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 The Men And Brethren Of The Masonic Lodge At Tarbolton.

    Within your dear mansion may wayward contention
        Or withering envy ne'er enter:
    May secrecy round be the mystical bound,
        And brotherly love be the centre.

Edinburgh, 23 August, 1787.

Robert Burns

Liberty. - A Fragment.

    Thee, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among,
    Thee, fam'd for martial deed and sacred song,
        To thee I turn with swimming eyes;
    Where is that soul of freedom fled?
    Immingled with the mighty dead!
        Beneath the hallow'd turf where Wallace lies!
    Hear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of death!
        Ye babbling winds, in silence sweep;
        Disturb not ye the hero's sleep,
    Nor give the coward secret breath.
        Is this the power in freedom's war,
        That wont to bid the battle rage?
    Behold that eye which shot immortal hate,
        Crushing the despot's proudest bearing!

Robert Burns

Such A Parcel Of Rogues In A Nation.

Tune. - "A parcel of rogues in a nation."


I.

    Fareweel to a' our Scottish fame,
        Fareweel our ancient glory,
    Fareweel even to the Scottish name,
        Sae fam'd in martial story.
    Now Sark rins o'er the Solway sands,
        And Tweed rins to the ocean,
    To mark where England's province stands
        Such a parcel of rogues in a nation.

II.

    What force or guile could not subdue,
        Thro' many warlike ages,
    Is wrought now by a coward few
        For hireling traitor's wages.
    The English steel we could disdain;
        Secure in valour's station;
    But English gold has been our bane
        Such a parcel of rogues in a nation.

III.

    O would, or I had ...

Robert Burns

Lines On Stirling.

    Here Stuarts once in glory reign'd,
    And laws for Scotland's weal ordain'd;
    But now unroof'd their palace stands,
    Their sceptre's sway'd by other hands;
    The injured Stuart line is gone,
    A race outlandish fills their throne;
    An idiot race, to honour lost;
    Who know them best despise them most.

Robert Burns

Bruce To His Men At Bannockburn. (First Version.)

Tune - "Hey, tuttie taitie."



I.

    Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled,
    Scots, wham Bruce has aften led;
    Welcome to your gory bed,
            Or to victorie!

II.

    Now's the day, and now's the hour;
    See the front o' battle lour:
    See approach proud Edward's pow'r
            Chains and slaverie!

III.

    Wha will be a traitor-knave?
    Wha can fill a coward's grave?
    Wha sae base as be a slave!
            Let him turn and flee!

IV.

    Wha for Scotland's king and law
    Freedom's sword will strongly draw,
    Freeman stand, or freeman fa',
            Let him follow me!

V.

    By oppression's woes and pains!
    By our sons in ...

Robert Burns

The Author's Earnest Cry And Prayer To The Scotch Representatives In The House Of Commons.

    'Dearest of distillation! last and best!----
    ------How art thou lost!--------'

Parody On Milton


    Ye Irish lords, ye knights an' squires,
    Wha represent our brughs an' shires,
    An' doucely manage our affairs
        In Parliament,
    To you a simple Bardie's prayers
        Are humbly sent.

    Alas! my roupet Muse is hearse!
    Your honours' hearts wi' grief 'twad pierce,
    To see her sittin' on her a--e
        Low i' the dust,
    An' scriechin' out prosaic verse,
        An' like to brust!

    Tell them wha hae the chief direction,
    Scotland an' me's in great affliction,
    E'er sin' they laid that curst restriction
        On aqua-vitæ;
    An' rouse them up to strong conviction,
  ...

Robert Burns