Written At Inverary.

    Whoe'er he be that sojourns here,
        I pity much his case,
    Unless he's come to wait upon
        The Lord their God, his Grace.

    There's naething here but Highland pride
        And Highland cauld and hunger;
    If Providence has sent me here,
        T'was surely in his anger.

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

Montgomery's Peggy.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

This Is No My Ain Lassie.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Written In A Wrapper, Enclosing A Letter To Captain Grose.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Open The Door To Me, Oh!

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.

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

Verses Written On A Window Of The Inn At Carron.

    We came na here to view your warks
        In hopes to be mair wise,
    But only, lest we gang to hell,
        It may be nae surprise:

    For whan we tirl'd at your door,
        Your porter dought na hear us;
    Sae may, shou'd we to hell's yetts come
        Your billy Satan sair us!

Robert Burns

Holy Willie's Prayer.

"And send the godly in a pet to pray."

Pope.


    O thou, wha in the heavens dost dwell,
    Wha, as it pleases best thysel',
    Sends ane to heaven, and ten to hell,
        A' for thy glory,
    And no for ony gude or ill
        They've done afore thee!

    I bless and praise thy matchless might,
    Whan thousands thou hast left in night,
    That I am here afore thy sight,
        For gifts and grace,
    A burnin' and a shinin' light
        To a' this place.

    What was I, or my generation,
    That I should get sic exaltation,
    I wha deserve sic just damnation,
        For broken laws,
    Five thousand years 'fore my creation,
        Thro' Adam's cause.

    When frae my mither's womb I fell,...

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

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 Highland Widow's Lament.

I.

    Oh! I am come to the low countrie,
        Och-on, och-on, och-rie!
    Without a penny in my purse,
        To buy a meal to me.

II.

    It was na sae in the Highland hills,
        Och-on, och-on, och-rie!
    Nae woman in the country wide
        Sae happy was as me.

III.

    For then I had a score o' kye,
        Och-on, och-on, och-rie!
    Feeding on yon hills so high,
        And giving milk to me.

IV.

    And there I had three score o' yowes,
        Och-on, och-on, och-rie!
    Skipping on yon bonnie knowes,
        And casting woo' to me.

V.

    I was the happiest of a' the clan,
        Sair, sair, may I repine;
    For Donald was the brawest lad,
  ...

Robert Burns