To Captain Riddel, Of Glenriddel. Extempore Lines On Returning A Newspaper.

Ellisland, Monday Evening.

    Your news and review, Sir, I've read through and through, Sir,
        With little admiring or blaming;
    The papers are barren of home-news or foreign,
        No murders or rapes worth the naming.

    Our friends, the reviewers, those chippers and hewers,
        Are judges of mortar and stone, Sir,
    But of meet or unmeet in a fabric complete,
        I'll boldly pronounce they are none, Sir.

    My goose-quill too rude is to tell all your goodness
        Bestow'd on your servant, the Poet;
    Would to God I had one like a beam of the sun,
        And then all the world, Sir, should know it!

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

The Farewell.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

On Scaring Some Water-Fowl In Loch-Turit.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Wandering Willie. (Last Version.)

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

First Epistle To Robert Graham, Esq. Of Fintray.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

English

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To A Gentleman Who Had Sent Him A Newspaper, And Offered To Continue It Free Of Expense.

    Kind Sir, I've read your paper through,
    And, faith, to me 'twas really new!
    How guess'd ye, Sir, what maist I wanted?
    This mony a day I've grain'd and gaunted,
    To ken what French mischief was brewin';
    Or what the drumlie Dutch were doin';
    That vile doup-skelper, Emperor Joseph,
    If Venus yet had got his nose off;
    Or how the collieshangie works
    Atween the Russians and the Turks:
    Or if the Swede, before he halt,
    Would play anither Charles the Twalt:
    If Denmark, any body spak o't;
    Or Poland, wha had now the tack o't;
    How cut-throat Prussian blades were hingin';
    How libbet Italy was singin';
    If Spaniard, Portuguese, or Swiss
    Were sayin' or takin' aught amiss:
    Or how our merry lads...

Robert Burns

On Robert Riddel.

    To Riddel, much-lamented man,
        This ivied cot was dear;
    Reader, dost value matchless worth?
        This ivied cot revere.

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

Epistle To J. Rankine, Enclosing Some Poems.

    O rough, rude, ready-witted Rankine,
    The wale o' cocks for fun an' drinkin'!
    There's monie godly folks are thinkin',
        Your dreams^[1] an' tricks
    Will send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin'
        Straught to auld Nick's.

    Ye hae sae monie cracks an' cants,
    And in your wicked, dru'ken rants,
    Ye mak a devil o' the saunts,
        An' fill them fou;
    And then their failings, flaws, an' wants,
        Are a' seen through.

    Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it!
    That holy robe, O dinna tear it!
    Spare't for their sakes wha aften wear it,
        The lads in black!
    But your curst wit, when it comes near it,
        Rives't aff their back.

    Think, wicked sinner, wha ye're skaithing,
   ...

Robert Burns

Epistle To Hugh Parker.

    In this strange land, this uncouth clime,
    A land unknown to prose or rhyme;
    Where words ne'er crost the muse's heckles,
    Nor limpet in poetic shackles:
    A land that prose did never view it,
    Except when drunk he stacher't thro' it,
    Here, ambush'd by the chimla cheek,
    Hid in an atmosphere of reek,
    I hear a wheel thrum i' the neuk,
    I hear it, for in vain I leuk.
    The red peat gleams, a fiery kernel,
    Enhusked by a fog infernal:
    Here, for my wonted rhyming raptures,
    I sit and count my sins by chapters;
    For life and spunk like ither Christians,
    I'm dwindled down to mere existence,
    Wi' nae converse but Gallowa' bodies,
    Wi' nae kend face but Jenny Geddes.^[1]
    Jenny, my Pegasea...

Robert Burns

An Essay on Criticism

    'Tis hard to say if greater waste of time
    Is seen in writing or in reading rhyme;
    But, of the two, less dangerous it appears
    To tire our own than poison others' ears.
    Time was, the owner of a peevish tongue,
    The pebble of his wrath unheeding flung,
    Saw the faint ripples touch the shore and cease,
    And in the duckpond all again was peace.
    But since that Science on our eyes hath laid
    The wondrous clay from her own spittle made,
    We see the widening ripples pass beyond,
    The pond becomes the world, the world a pond,
    All ether trembles when the pebble falls,
    And a light word may ring in starry halls.
    When first on earth the swift iambic ran
    Men here and there were found but nowhere Man.
    From whenceso...

Henry John Newbolt