To John Maxwell Of Terraughty, On His Birthday.

    Health to the Maxwell's vet'ran chief!
    Health, ay unsour'd by care or grief:
    Inspir'd, I turn'd Fate's sybil leaf
        This natal morn;
    I see thy life is stuff o' prief,
        Scarce quite half worn.

    This day thou metes three score eleven,
    And I can tell that bounteous Heaven
    (The second sight, ye ken, is given
        To ilka Poet)
    On thee a tack o' seven times seven
        Will yet bestow it.

    If envious buckies view wi' sorrow
    Thy lengthen'd days on this blest morrow,
    May desolation's lang teeth'd harrow,
        Nine miles an hour,
    Rake them like Sodom and Gomorrah,
        In brunstane stoure!

    But for thy friends, and they are mony,
    Baith honest men and lasses bonnie,
    May couthie fortune, kind and cannie,
        In social glee,
    Wi' mornings blythe and e'enings funny
        Bless them and thee!

    Fareweel, auld birkie! Lord be near ye,
    And then the Deil he daur na steer ye;
    Your friends ay love, your faes ay fear ye;
        For me, shame fa' me,
    If neist my heart I dinna wear ye
        While BURNS they ca' me!

Dumfries, 18 Feb. 1792.

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

Man Was Made To Mourn. - A Dirge.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

To A Mouse, On Turning Her Up In Her Nest With The Plough, November, 1785.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

The Battle Of Sheriff-Muir.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

The Chevalier's Lament.

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.

A Dream.

    "Thoughts, words, and deeds, the statute blames with reason;
    But surely dreams were ne'er indicted treason."

On reading, in the public papers, the "Laureate's Ode," with the other parade of June 4th, 1786, the author was no sooner dropt asleep, than he imagined himself transported to the birth-day levee; and, in his dreaming fancy, made the following "Address."


    Guid-mornin' to your Majesty!
        May Heaven augment your blisses,
    On ev'ry new birth-day ye see,
        A humble poet wishes!
    My bardship here, at your levee,
        On sic a day as this is,
    Is sure an uncouth sight to see,
        Amang thae birth-day dresses
        Sae fine this day.

    I see ye're complimented thrang,
        By many a lord an' lady;
   ...

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

Letter To James Tennant, Of Glenconner.

    Auld comrade dear, and brither sinner,
    How's a' the folk about Glenconner?
    How do you this blae eastlin wind,
    That's like to blaw a body blind?
    For me, my faculties are frozen,
    My dearest member nearly dozen'd,
    I've sent you here, by Johnie Simson,
    Twa sage philosophers to glimpse on;
    Smith, wi' his sympathetic feeling,
    An' Reid, to common sense appealing.
    Philosophers have fought and wrangled,
    An' meikle Greek and Latin mangled,
    Till wi' their logic-jargon tir'd,
    An' in the depth of science mir'd,
    To common sense they now appeal,
    What wives and wabsters see and feel.
    But, hark ye, friend! I charge you strictly
    Peruse them, an' return them quickly,
    For now I'm grown sae curse...

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

To Mrs. Scott, Of Wauchope.

    I mind it weel in early date,
    When I was beardless, young and blate,
        An' first could thresh the barn;
    Or hand a yokin at the pleugh;
    An' tho' forfoughten sair enough,
        Yet unco proud to learn:
    When first amang the yellow corn
        A man I reckon'd was,
    An' wi' the lave ilk merry morn
        Could rank my rig and lass,
            Still shearing, and clearing,
                The tither stooked raw,
            Wi' claivers, an' haivers,
                Wearing the day awa.

    E'en then, a wish, I mind its pow'r,
    A wish that to my latest hour
        Shall strongly heave my breast,
    That I for poor auld Scotland's sake
    Some usefu' plan or beuk could make,
        Or sing a sang at least...

Robert Burns

Lament For James, Earl Of Glencairn.

I.

    The wind blew hollow frae the hills,
        By fits the sun's departing beam
    Look'd on the fading yellow woods
        That wav'd o'er Lugar's winding stream:
    Beneath a craggy steep, a bard,
        Laden with years and meikle pain,
    In loud lament bewail'd his lord,
        Whom death had all untimely ta'en.

II.

    He lean'd him to an ancient aik,
        Whose trunk was mould'ring down with years;
    His locks were bleached white with time,
        His hoary cheek was wet wi' tears;
    And as he touch'd his trembling harp,
        And as he tun'd his doleful sang,
    The winds, lamenting thro' their caves,
        To echo bore the notes alang.

III.

    "Ye scattered birds that faintly sing,<...

Robert Burns