The Toad-Eater.

    What of earls with whom you have supt,
        And of dukes that you dined with yestreen?
    Lord! a louse, Sir, is still but a louse,
        Though it crawl on the curl of a queen.

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 A Scotch Bard, Gone To The West Indies.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

A Vision.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Fragment Inscribed To The Right Hon. C.J. Fox.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

The Day Returns.

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

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

On Captain Grose's Peregrinations Through Scotland, Collecting The Antiquities Of That Kingdom.

    Hear, Land o' Cakes and brither Scots,
    Frae Maidenkirk to Johnny Groat's;
    If there's a hole in a' your coats,
        I rede you tent it:
    A chiel's amang you taking notes,
        And, faith, he'll prent it!

    If in your bounds ye chance to light
    Upon a fine, fat, fodgel wight,
    O' stature short, but genius bright,
        That's he, mark weel,
    And wow! he has an unco slight
        O' cauk and keel.

    By some auld, houlet-haunted biggin,
    Or kirk deserted by its riggin,
    It's ten to one ye'll find him snug in
        Some eldritch part,
    Wi' deils, they say, L--d save's! colleaguin'
        At some black art.

    Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha' or chaumer,
    Ye gipsey-gang that deal in...

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

Poem On Life, Addressed To Colonel De Peyster. Dumfries, 1796.

    My honoured colonel, deep I feel
    Your interest in the Poet's weal;
    Ah! now sma' heart hae I to speel
        The steep Parnassus,
    Surrounded thus by bolus, pill,
        And potion glasses.

    O what a canty warld were it,
    Would pain and care and sickness spare it;
    And fortune favour worth and merit,
        As they deserve!
    (And aye a rowth, roast beef and claret;
        Syne, wha wad starve?)

    Dame Life, tho' fiction out may trick her,
    And in paste gems and frippery deck her;
    Oh! flickering, feeble, and unsicker
        I've found her still,
    Ay wavering like the willow-wicker,
        'Tween good and ill.

    Then that curst carmagnole, auld Satan,
    Watches, like baudrons by a r...

Robert Burns

The Henpecked Husband.

    Curs'd be the man, the poorest wretch in life,
    The crouching vassal to the tyrant wife!
    Who has no will but by her high permission;
    Who has not sixpence but in her possession;
    Who must to her his dear friend's secret tell;
    Who dreads a curtain lecture worse than hell!
    Were such the wife had fallen to my part,
    I'd break her spirit, or I'd break her heart;
    I'd charm her with the magic of a switch,
    I'd kiss her maids, and kick the perverse b----h.

Robert Burns