Though Fickle Fortune Has Deceived Me,

    Though fickle Fortune has deceived me,
        She promis'd fair and perform'd but ill;
    Of mistress, friends, and wealth bereav'd me,
        Yet I bear a heart shall support me still.

    I'll act with prudence as far's I'm able,
        But if success I must never find,
    Then come misfortune, I bid thee welcome,
        I'll meet thee with an undaunted mind.

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

Eppie Adair.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

There Was A Lass.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Canst Thou Leave Me Thus.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Ae Fond Kiss.

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.

Address, Spoken By Miss Fontenelle On Her Benefit Night.

    Still anxious to secure your partial favour,
    And not less anxious, sure, this night than ever,
    A Prologue, Epilogue, or some such matter,
    'Twould vamp my bill, said I, if nothing better;
    So sought a Poet, roosted near the skies,
    Told him I came to feast my curious eyes;
    Said nothing like his works was ever printed;
    And last, my Prologue-business slyly hinted!
    "Ma'am, let me tell you," quoth my man of rhymes,
    "I know your bent, these are no laughing times:
    Can you, but, Miss, I own I have my fears,
    Dissolve in pause, and sentimental tears;
    With laden sighs, and solemn-rounded sentence,
    Rouse from his sluggish slumbers, fell Repentance;
    Paint Vengeance as he takes his horrid stand,
    Waving on high the des...

Robert Burns

Luckless Fortune.

    O raging fortune's withering blast
        Has laid my leaf full low, O!
    O raging fortune's withering blast
        Has laid my leaf full low, O!
    My stem was fair, my bud was green,
        My blossom sweet did blow, O;
    The dew fell fresh, the sun rose mild,
        And made my branches grow, O.
    But luckless fortune's northern storms
        Laid a' my blossoms low, O;
    But luckless fortune's northern storms
        Laid a' my blossoms low, O.

Robert Burns

My Father Was A Farmer.

Tune - "The Weaver and his Shuttle, O."


I.

    My father was a farmer
        Upon the Carrick border, O,
    And carefully he bred me,
        In decency and order, O;
    He bade me act a manly part,
        Though I had ne'er a farthing, O;
    For without an honest manly heart,
        No man was worth regarding, O.

II.

    Then out into the world
        My course I did determine, O;
    Tho' to be rich was not my wish,
        yet to be great was charming, O:
    My talents they were not the worst,
        Nor yet my education, O;
    Resolv'd was I, at least to try,
        To mend my situation, O.

III.

    In many a way, and vain essay,
        I courted fortune's favour, O;

Robert Burns

To Robert Graham, Esq., Of Fintray.

    Late crippl'd of an arm, and now a leg,
    About to beg a pass for leave to beg:
    Dull, listless, teas'd, dejected, and deprest,
    (Nature is adverse to a cripple's rest;)
    Will generous Graham list to his Poet's wail?
    (It soothes poor misery, hearkening to her tale,)
    And hear him curse the light he first survey'd,
    And doubly curse the luckless rhyming trade?

    Thou, Nature, partial Nature! I arraign;
    Of thy caprice maternal I complain:
    The lion and the bull thy care have found,
    One shakes the forests, and one spurns the ground:
    Thou giv'st the ass his hide, the snail his shell,
    Th' envenom'd wasp, victorious, guards his cell;
    Thy minions, kings, defend, control, devour,
    In all th' omnipotence of rule and...

Robert Burns

First Epistle To Robert Graham, Esq. Of Fintray.

    When Nature her great master-piece designed,
    And fram'd her last, best work, the human mind,
    Her eye intent on all the mazy plan,
    She form'd of various parts the various man.

    Then first she calls the useful many forth;
    Plain plodding industry, and sober worth:
    Thence peasants, farmers, native sons of earth,
    And merchandise' whole genus take their birth:
    Each prudent cit a warm existence finds,
    And all mechanics' many-apron'd kinds.
    Some other rarer sorts are wanted yet,
    The lead and buoy are needful to the net;
    The caput mortuum of gross desires
    Makes a material for mere knights and squires;
    The martial phosphorus is taught to flow,
    She kneads the lumpish philosophic dough,
    Then m...

Robert Burns

Deluded Swain, The Pleasure.

I.

    Deluded swain, the pleasure
        The fickle fair can give thee,
    Is but a fairy treasure -
        Thy hopes will soon deceive thee.

II.

    The billows on the ocean,
        The breezes idly roaming,
    The clouds uncertain motion -
        They are but types of woman.

III.

    O! art thou not ashamed
        To doat upon a feature?
    If man thou wouldst be named,
        Despise the silly creature.

IV.

    Go find an honest fellow;
        Good claret set before thee:
    Hold on till thou art mellow,
        And then to bed in glory.

Robert Burns