The True Loyal Natives.

    Ye true "Loyal Natives," attend to my song,
    In uproar and riot rejoice the night long;
    From envy or hatred your corps is exempt,
    But where is your shield from the darts of contempt?

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

Whan I Sleep I Dream.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Gane Is The Day.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

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

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.

The Chevalier's Lament.

Tune - "Captain O'Kean."

I.

    The small birds rejoice in the green leaves returning,
        The murmuring streamlet winds clear thro' the vale;
    The hawthorn trees blow in the dew of the morning,
        And wild scatter'd cowslips bedeck the green dale:
    But what can give pleasure, or what can seem fair,
        While the lingering moments are number'd by care?
    No flow'rs gaily springing, nor birds sweetly singing,
        Can soothe the sad bosom of joyless despair.

II.

    The deed that I dared, could it merit their malice,
        A king and a father to place on his throne?
    His right are these hills, and his right are these valleys,
        Where the wild beasts find shelter, but I can find none;
    But 'tis not ...

Robert Burns

Robert Burns.

One hundred years have come and gone,
Since thy brave spirit came to earth,
Since Scotland saw thy genius dawn,
And had the joy to give thee birth.

There was no proud and brilliant throng,
To celebrate thine advent here,
And but the humble heard the song,
Which first proclaim'd a poet near.

But genius will assert its right
To speak a word, or chant a lay,
And thou, with independent might,
Asserted it from day to day.

No fawning, sycophantic whine,
Marr'd the clear note thy spirit blew,
Thy stirring words, thy gift divine,
Were to thyself and country true.

Tho' heir to naught of wealth, or land,
Thy soaring mind, with fancy fir'd,
Saw, in Creation's lavish hand,
The gifts display'd, thy soul desir'd.

The field, ...

Thomas Frederick Young

The Dumfries Volunteers.

Tune - "Push about the jorum."


I.

    Does haughty Gaul invasion threat,
        Then let the loons beware, Sir,
    There's wooden walls upon our seas,
        And volunteers on shore, Sir.
    The Nith shall run to Corsincon,
        And Criffel sink in Solway,
    Ere we permit a foreign foe
        On British ground to rally!

II.

    O let us not, like snarling tykes,
        In wrangling be divided;
    Till slap come in an unco loon
        And wi' a rung decide it.
    Be Britain still to Britain true,
        Amang oursels united;
    For never but by British hands
        Maun British wrangs be righted!

III.

    The kettle o' the kirk and state,
        Perhaps a clout may fail ...

Robert Burns

The Sons Of Old Killie.

Tune - "Shawnboy."


I.

    Ye sons of old Killie, assembled by Willie,
        To follow the noble vocation;
    Your thrifty old mother has scarce such another
        To sit in that honoured station.
    I've little to say, but only to pray,
        As praying's the ton of your fashion;
    A prayer from the muse you well may excuse,
        'Tis seldom her favourite passion.

II.

    Ye powers who preside o'er the wind and the tide,
        Who marked each element's border;
    Who formed this frame with beneficent aim,
        Whose sovereign statute is order;
    Within this dear mansion, may wayward contention
        Or withered envy ne'er enter;
    May secrecy round be the mystical bound,
        And brothe...

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

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