Tam O’ Shanter

When chapmen billes leave the street,
And drouthy neebors, neebors meet,
As market-days are wearing late,
An' folk begin to tak the gate;
While we sit bousing at the nappy,
And getting fou and unco happy,
We think na on the lang Scots miles,
The mosses, waters, slaps, and styles,
That lie between us and our hame,
Whare sits our sulky sullen dame.
Gathering her brows like gathering storm,
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.


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

Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie,
O, what a panic's in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty
Wi bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee,
Wi' murdering pattle.


Holy Willie’s Prayer

O Thou that in the Heavens does dwell,
Wha, as it pleases best Thysel,
Sends ane to Heaven an' ten to Hell
A' for Thy glory,
And no for onie guid or ill
They've done before Thee!


A Red, Red Rose

O, my luve's like a red, red rose,
That's newly sprung in June.
O, my luve's like the melodie,
That's sweetly play'd in tune.


Ae Fond Kiss

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever!
Ae farewell, and then forever!
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee,
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee.


Address To A Haggis

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o' the puddin-race!
Aboon them a' ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy o' a grace
As lang's my arm.


Auld Lang Syne

And for auld lang syne, my jo,
For auld lang syne,
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,
For auld lang syne,


Handsome Nell

O, once I lov'd a bonie lass,
Ay, and I love her still!
And whilst that virtue warms my breast,
I'll love my handsome Nell.


Scots, Wha Hae

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled,
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led,
Welcome to your gory bed
Or to victorie!

A Man’s A Man For A’ That

Is there for honesty poverty 
That hings his head, an' a' that; 
The coward slave -- we pass him by, 
We dare be poor for a' that! 
For a' that, an' a' that, 
Our toils obscure an' a' that, 
The rank is but the guinea's stamp, 
The man's the gowd for a' that.

Rattlin, Roarin Willie

O, rattlin, roarin Willie,
O, he held to the fair,
An' for to sell his fiddle
And to buy some other ware;
But parting wi' his fiddle,
The saut tear blin't his e'e -
And, rattlin, roarin Willie,
Ye're welcome hame to me!


Rantin Robin

There was a lad was born in Kyle,
But whatna day o whatna style,
I doubt it's hardly worth the while
To be sae nice wi Robin.


The Henpecked Husband

Curs'd be the man, the poorest wretch in life, 
The crouching vassal to the tyrant wife, 

Songs and Poems

A small collection of the many songs and poems penned by Robert Burns, if your favorite is not listed please let us know and we will include it during our next review.

Please click on the appropriate title to view the full version.

© 2008 Alamo Burns Club.

Under no circumstances can any of the contents of this site be copied, reproduced, or represented without prior written consent.

Highland Mary

Ye banks and braes and streams around
The castle o' Montgomery,
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,
Your waters never drumlie!
There Summer first unfald her robes,
And there the langest tarry!
For there I took the last fareweel
O' my sweet Highland Mary!

Mary Morison

O Mary, at thy window be!
It is the wish'd, the trysted hour.
Those smiles and glances let me see,
That make the miser's treasure poor.
How blythely wad I bide the stoure,
A weary slave frae sun to sun,
Could I the rich reward secure -
The lovely Mary Morison!


The Slave’s Lament

It was in sweet Senegal
That my foes did me enthral
For the lands of Virginia, -ginia, O!
Torn from that lovely shore,
And must never see it more,
And alas! I am weary, weary, O!

THE ALAMO BURNS CLUB www.alamoburnsclub.org.uk

Twa Dogs. A Tale.

'Twas in that place o' Scotland's isle,
That bears the name o' auld King Coil,
Upon a bonnie day in June,
When wearin' thro' the afternoon,
Twa dogs, that were na thrang at hame,
Forgather'd ance upon a time.

The Gallant Weaver

Where Cart rins rowin to the sea
By monie a flower and spreading tree,
There lives a lad, the lad for me -
He is a gallant weaver!
O, I had wooers aught or nine,
They gied me rings and ribbons fine,
And I was fear'd my heart wad tine,
And I gied it to the weaver.

To Clarinda


In vain would Prudence with decorous sneer
Point out a cens'ring world, and bid me fear:
Above that world on wings of love I rise.
I know its worst, and can that worse despise.

Epistle to a Young Friend

I lang hae thought, my youthfu' friend,
A something to have sent you,
Tho' it should serve nae ither end
Than just a kind memento:
But how the subject-theme may gang,
Let time and chance determine:
Perhaps it may turn out a sang;
Perhaps, turn out a sermon.

A Parcel of Rogues in a Nation

Fareweel to a' our Scottish fame,
Fareweel our ancient glory!
Fareweel ev'n to the Scottish name.
Sae famed in martial story!
Now Sark rins over Salway sands,
An' Tweed rins to the ocean,
To mark where England's province stands -
Such a parcel of rogues in a nation!

Address to the Deil

O Thou! Whatever title suit thee --
Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie --
Wha in yon cavern grim an' sootie,
Clos'd under hatches,
Spairges about the brunstane cootie,
To scaud poor wretches!

Reply to A Trimming Epistle Received from a Tailor

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.

There Liv’d a Man in Yonder Glen

There liv'd a man in yonder glen,
And John Blunt was his name, O;
He make gude maut, and he brews gude ale,
And he bears a wondrous fame, O.

John Barleycorn

There was three kings into the east,
Three kings both great and high,
And they hae sworn a solemn oath
John Barleycorn should die.

An Epistle to Davie, a Brother Poet

While winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw,
And bar the doors wi' drivin' snaw,
And hing us owre the ingle,
I set me down to pass the time,
And spin a verse or twa o' rhyme,
In hamely, westlin jingle:

A Bards Epitaph

Is there a whim-inspiring fool,
Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule,
Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool? -
Let him draw near;
And owre this grassy heap sing dool,
And drap a tear.

The Farewell

Farewell, old Scotia's bleak domains,
Far dearer than the torrid plains,
Where rich ananas blow!

Death and Doctor Hornbook

Some books are lies frae end to end,
And some great lies were never penn'd:
Ev'n ministers, they have been kend,
In holy rapture,
A rousing whid at times to vend,
And nail't wi' Scripture.

Address to the Unco Guid

O ye, wha are sae guid yoursel,
Sae pious and sae holy,
Ye've nought to do but mark and tell
Your neebours' fauts and folly,
Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill,
Supplied wi' store o' water,
The heapet happer's ebbing still,
An' still the clap plays clatter!

Ye Jacobites By Name

Ye Jacobites by name,
Give an ear, give an ear!
Ye Jacobites by name,
Give an ear!
Ye Jacobites by name,
Your fautes I will proclaim,
Your doctrines I maun blame -
You shall hear!

Epistle to J. Lapraik

While briers an' woodbines budding green,
And paitricks scraichin loud at e'en,
An' morning poussie whiddin seen,
Inspire my Muse,
This freedom, in an unknown frien'
I pray excuse.

Sweet Afton

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes!
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise!
My Mary's asleep by the murmuring stream --
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream!

Lines Written on a Bank Note

Wae worth thy power, thou cursed leaf!

Fell source of a’ my woe and grief,

For lack o’ thee I’ve lost my lass,

For lack o’ thee I scrimp my glass!

Nature’s Law

Let other heroes boast their scars,
The marks o' sturt and strife,
But other poets sing of wars,
The plagues o' human life!
Shame fa' the fun: wi' sword and gun
To slap mankind like lumber!
I sing his name and nobler fame
Wha multiplies our number.

Scotch Drink

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

Man Was Made To Mourn

When chill November's surly blast
Made fields and forest bare,
One ev'ning, as I wand'red forth
Along the banks of Ayr,
I spied a man, whose aged step
Seem'd weary, worn with care,
His face was furrow'd o'er with years,
And hoary was his hair.


Green Grow The Rashes, O

Green grow the rashes, O;
Green grow the rashes, O;
The sweetest hours that e'er I spend,
Are spent among the lasses, O.


The Cotter’s Saturday Night

My lov'd, my honor'd, much respected friend!
No mercenary bard his homage pays;
With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end,
My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise:
To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays,
The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene;
The native feelings strong, the guileless ways;
What Aiken in a cottage would have been;
Ah! tho' his worth unknown, far happier there I