Robert Burns Poems

Reply To A Trimming Epistle Received From A Tailor Poetry What ails ye now, ye lousie bitch To thresh my back at sic a pitch? Losh, man! hae mercy wi’ your natch, Your bodkin’s bauld; I didna suffer half sae much Frae Daddie Auld. What tho’ at times, when I grow crouse, I gie their […]

Prologue Spoken At The Theatre Of Dumfries Poetry On New Year’s Day Evening, 1790. No song nor dance I bring from yon great city, That queens it o’er our taste—the more’s the pity: Tho’ by the bye, abroad why will you roam? Good sense and taste are natives here at home: But not for panegyric […]

The Banks O’ Doon Second Version Poem Ye flowery banks o’ bonie Doon, How can ye blume sae fair? How can ye chant, ye little birds, And I sae fu’ o care! Thou’ll break my heart, thou bonie bird, That sings upon the bough! Thou minds me o’ the happy days When my fause Luve […]

Robert Burns Song Tam Glen My heart is a-breaking, dear Tittie, Some counsel unto me come len’, To anger them a’ is a pity, But what will I do wi’ Tam Glen? I’m thinking, wi’ sic a braw fellow, In poortith I might mak a fen; What care I in riches to wallow, If I […]

Carle, An The King Come Poetry Chorus.—Carle, an the King come, Carle, an the King come, Thou shalt dance and I will sing, Carle, an the King come. An somebody were come again, Then somebody maun cross the main, And every man shall hae his ain, Carle, an the King come. Carle, an the King […]

Robert Burns – My Father Was A Farmer Song Tune— The weaver and his shuttle, O. My father was a farmer upon the Carrick border, O, And carefully he bred me in decency and order, O; He bade me act a manly part, though I had ne’er a farthing, O; For without an honest manly […]

Ballad On The American War Song Tune— Killiecrankie. When Guilford good our pilot stood An’ did our hellim thraw, man, Ae night, at tea, began a plea, Within America, man: Then up they gat the maskin-pat, And in the sea did jaw, man; An’ did nae less, in full congress, Than quite refuse our law, […]

Robert Burns Poem Epitaph For Mr. Gabriel Richardson Here Brewer Gabriel’s fire’s extinct, And empty all his barrels: He’s blest—if, as he brew’d, he drink, In upright, honest morals.

Robert Burns Poem Epistle To James Smith Friendship, mysterious cement of the soul! Sweet’ner of Life, and solder of Society! I owe thee much—Blair. Dear Smith, the slee’st, pawkie thief, That e’er attempted stealth or rief! Ye surely hae some warlock-brief Owre human hearts; For ne’er a bosom yet was prief Against your arts. For […]

Address To The Toothache Poem My curse upon your venom’d stang, That shoots my tortur’d gums alang, An’ thro’ my lug gies mony a twang, Wi’ gnawing vengeance, Tearing my nerves wi’ bitter pang, Like racking engines! When fevers burn, or argues freezes, Rheumatics gnaw, or colics squeezes, Our neibor’s sympathy can ease us, Wi’ […]