The Parson's Looks.

    That there is falsehood in his looks
        I must and will deny;
    They say their master is a knave,
        And sure they do not lie.

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 Mr. Syme. With A Present Of A Dozen Of Porter.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Hey For A Lass Wi' A Tocher.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Adown Winding Nith.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

To A Mountain Daisy, On Turning One Down With The Plough In April, 1786.

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.

Lines On Meeting With Lord Daer.

    This wot ye all whom it concerns,
    I, Rhymer Robin, alias Burns,
        October twenty-third,
    A ne'er-to-be-forgotten day,
    Sae far I sprachled up the brae,
        I dinner'd wi' a Lord.

    I've been at druken writers' feasts,
    Nay, been bitch-fou' 'mang godly priests,
        Wi' rev'rence be it spoken:
    I've even join'd the honour'd jorum,
    When mighty squireships of the quorum
        Their hydra drouth did sloken.

    But wi' a Lord, stand out, my shin!
    A Lord, a Peer, an Earl's son!
        Up higher yet, my bonnet!
    And sic a Lord! lang Scotch ells twa,
    Our Peerage he o'erlooks them a',
        As I look o'er my sonnet.

    But, oh! for Hogarth's magic pow'r!
    To show Sir Bardie's w...

Robert Burns

On A Henpecked Country Squire.

    As father Adam first was fool'd,
        A case that's still too common,
    Here lies a man a woman rul'd,
        The devil rul'd the woman.

Robert Burns

To A Louse, On Seeing One In A Lady's Bonnet, At Church

    Ha! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin ferlie!
    Your impudence protects you sairly:
    I canna say by ye strunt rarely,
        Owre gauze and lace;
    Tho' faith, I fear, ye dine but sparely
        On sic a place.

    Ye ugly, creepin', blastit wonner,
    Detested, shunn'd, by saunt an' sinner,
    How dare you set your fit upon her,
        Sae fine a lady!
    Gae somewhere else, and seek your dinner
        On some poor body.

    Swith, in some beggar's haffet squattle;
    There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle
    Wi' ither kindred, jumping cattle,
        In shoals and nations;
    Whare horn nor bane ne'er daur unsettle
        Your thick plantations.

    Now haud you there, ye're out o' sight,
    Below the fat...

Robert Burns

To Dr. Blacklock, In Answer To A Letter.

Ellisland, 21st Oct. 1789.

    Wow, but your letter made me vauntie!
    And are ye hale, and weel, and cantie?
    I kenn'd it still your wee bit jauntie
        Wad bring ye to:
    Lord send you ay as weel's I want ye,
        And then ye'll do.

    The ill-thief blaw the heron south!
    And never drink be near his drouth!
    He tauld mysel' by word o' mouth,
        He'd tak my letter:
    I lippen'd to the chief in trouth,
        And bade nae better.

    But aiblins honest Master Heron,
    Had at the time some dainty fair one,
    To ware his theologic care on,
        And holy study;
    And tir'd o' sauls to waste his lear on
        E'en tried the body.

    But what dy'e think, my trusty fier,
    ...

Robert Burns

Lines To John Rankine.

    He who of Rankine sang lies stiff and dead,
    And a green grassy hillock hides his head;
    Alas! alas! a devilish change indeed.

Robert Burns

The Kirk's Alarm. - A Ballad. (Second Version.)

I.

                Orthodox, orthodox,
                Who believe in John Knox,
    Let me sound an alarm to your conscience,
                There's a heretic blast,
                Has been blawn i' the wast,
    That what is not sense must be nonsense,
        Orthodox,
    That what is not sense must be nonsense.

II.

                Doctor Mac, Doctor Mac,
                Ye should stretch on a rack,
    And strike evil doers wi' terror;
                To join faith and sense,
                Upon any pretence,
    Was heretic damnable error,
        Doctor Mac,
    Was heretic damnable error.

III.

                Town of Ayr, town of Ayr,
                It was rash I declare,
    To meddle wi' misc...

Robert Burns