To Mr. Syme. With A Present Of A Dozen Of Porter.

    O, had the malt thy strength of mind,
        Or hops the flavour of thy wit,
    'Twere drink for first of human kind,
        A gift that e'en for Syme were fit.

Jerusalem Tavern, Dumfries.

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

First When Maggy Was My Care.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Chloris.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

When Januar' Wind.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

The Selkirk Grace.

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.

To Mr. Syme.

    No more of your guests, be they titled or not,
        And cook'ry the first in the nation;
    Who is proof to thy personal converse and wit,
        Is proof to all other temptation.

Robert Burns

To A Lady, With A Present Of A Pair Of Drinking-Glasses.

    Fair Empress of the Poet's soul,
        And Queen of Poetesses;
    Clarinda, take this little boon,
        This humble pair of glasses.

    And fill them high with generous juice,
        As generous as your mind;
    And pledge me in the generous toast,
        "The whole of human kind!"

    "To those who love us!" second fill;
        But not to those whom we love;
    Lest we love those who love not us!
        A third, "to thee and me, love!"

Robert Burns

Scotch Drink.

    "Gie him strong drink, until he wink,
        That's sinking in despair;
    An' liquor guid to fire his bluid,
        That's prest wi' grief an' care;
    There let him bouse, an' deep carouse,
        Wi' bumpers flowing o'er,
    Till he forgets his loves or debts,
        An' minds his griefs no more."

Solomon's Proverb, xxxi. 6, 7.


    Let other poets raise a fracas
    'Bout vines, an' wines, an' dru'ken Bacchus,
    An' crabbit names and stories wrack us,
        An' grate our lug,
    I sing the juice Scotch bear can mak us,
        In glass or jug.

    O, thou, my Muse! guid auld Scotch drink;
    Whether thro' wimplin' worms thou jink,
    Or, richly brown, ream o'er the brink,
        In glorious faem,
   ...

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

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

The Toast.

    Fill me with the rosy-wine,
    Call a toast, a toast divine;
    Give the Poet's darling flame,
    Lovely Jessy be the name;
    Then thou mayest freely boast,
    Thou hast given a peerless toast.

Robert Burns