To Mr. M'Adam, Of Craigen-Gillan.

    Sir, o'er a gill I gat your card,
        I trow it made me proud;
    See wha tak's notice o' the bard
        I lap and cry'd fu' loud.

    Now deil-ma-care about their jaw,
        The senseless, gawky million:
    I'll cock my nose aboon them a'
        I'm roos'd by Craigen-Gillan!

    'Twas noble, Sir; 'twas like yoursel',
        To grant your high protection:
    A great man's smile, ye ken fu' well,
        Is ay a blest infection.

    Tho' by his^[1] banes who in a tub
        Match'd Macedonian Sandy!
    On my ain legs thro' dirt and dub,
        I independent stand ay.

    And when those legs to gude, warm kail,
        Wi' welcome canna bear me;
    A lee dyke-side, a sybow-tail,
        And barley-scone shall cheer me.

    Heaven spare you lang to kiss the breath
        O' many flow'ry simmers!
    And bless your bonnie lasses baith,
        I'm tauld they're loosome kimmers!

    And GOD bless young Dunaskin's laird,
        The blossom of our gentry!
    And may he wear an auld man's beard,
        A credit to his country.

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

To J. Rankine.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Verses To John Rankine.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

The Brigs Of Ayr, A Poem, Inscribed To J. Ballantyne, Esq., Ayr.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

A Fragment.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

English

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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

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

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

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

The Inventory; - In Answer To A Mandate By The Surveyor Of The Taxes.

    Sir, as your mandate did request,
    I send you here a faithfu' list,
    O' gudes, an' gear, an' a' my graith,
    To which I'm clear to gi'e my aith.

        Imprimis, then, for carriage cattle,
    I have four brutes o' gallant mettle,
    As ever drew afore a pettle.
    My lan' afore's^[1] a gude auld has been,
    An' wight, an' wilfu' a' his days been.
    My lan ahin's^[2] a weel gaun fillie,
    That aft has borne me hame frae Killie,^[3]
    An' your auld burro' mony a time,
    In days when riding was nae crime,
    But ance, whan in my wooing pride,
    I like a blockhead boost to ride,
    The wilfu' creature sae I pat to,
    (L--d pardon a' my sins an' that too!)
    I play'd my fillie sic a s...

Robert Burns