Robert Burns

Robert Burns

1759–1796 · lived 37 years GB GB

Robert Burns was a Scottish poet and lyricist, widely regarded as the national poet of Scotland and celebrated as the cultural icon of its people. His work often captured the spirit of rural Scottish life, using vernacular Scots and exploring themes of love, nature, social justice, and national identity. Burns's poetry and songs have had a lasting impact on Scottish culture and continue to be cherished worldwide.

n. 1759-01-25, Alloway · m. 1796-07-21, Dumfries

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A Bard's Epitaph

A Bard's Epitaph
Is there a whim-inspired 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.
Is there a bard of rustic song,
Who, noteless, steals the crowds among,
That weekly this area throng,
O, pass not by!
But, with a frater-feeling strong,
Here, heave a sigh.
Is there a man, whose judgment clear
Can others teach the course to steer,
Yet runs, himself, life's mad career,
Wild as the wave,
Here pause-and, thro' the starting tear,
Survey this grave.
The poor inhabitant below
Was quick to learn the wise to know,
And keenly felt the friendly glow,
And softer flame;
But thoughtless follies laid him low,
And stain'd his name!
Reader, attend! whether thy soul
Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole,
Or darkling grubs this earthly hole,
In low pursuit:
Know, prudent, cautious, self-control
Is wisdom's root.
Read full poem
Bio

Identification and basic context

Robert Burns, often hailed as the Bard of Ayrshire, is Scotland's national poet and a globally recognized figure in literature. He was born in Alloway, Ayrshire, Scotland. His primary language of writing was Scots, though he also wrote in English and occasionally in a heavily anglicized Scots. Burns lived during a period of significant social and political change, influenced by the Enlightenment and the French Revolution, which fostered a spirit of reform and nationalism.

Childhood and education

Burns's childhood was shaped by rural poverty and hard agricultural labor. His father, William Burnes, was a tenant farmer who instilled in his children a strong sense of self-improvement and education. Robert received a basic formal education but was largely self-taught, devouring books on literature, philosophy, and history. Early influences included the Bible, Scottish ballads, and the works of Enlightenment thinkers like Robert Fergusson and Allan Ramsay, which kindled his interest in Scottish culture and language.

Literary trajectory

Burns's literary career began in earnest in his early twenties. He started writing poetry as a pastime, initially to court women and to express his feelings about life in rural Scotland. His first collection, *Poems, Chiefly in the Scottish Dialect*, published in 1786, was a resounding success, quickly bringing him fame and allowing him to move to Edinburgh. He continued to write and collect Scottish folk songs, contributing significantly to the preservation and popularization of Scottish musical heritage. He also worked as an exciseman (tax collector) to supplement his income, a profession that sometimes interfered with his writing but also exposed him to different aspects of Scottish life.

Works, style, and literary characteristics

Burns's most famous works include "Auld Lang Syne," "Tam o' Shanter," "Scots Wha Hae," and "Ae Fond Kiss." His dominant themes are love (often unrequited or passionate), nature (the beauty of the Scottish landscape, the cycles of life), friendship, social inequality, and Scottish identity. His style is characterized by its directness, emotional sincerity, and vibrant use of Scots dialect, which he elevated to a literary language. He masterfully employed rhyme, rhythm, and folk song structures, often infused with a lyrical and sometimes satirical tone. His poetic voice is intimate, earthy, and often deeply patriotic or humanist. Burns's innovations lay in his ability to imbue traditional folk forms with profound personal and social commentary, making his work accessible and resonant across social classes.

Cultural and historical context

Burns was a product of the Scottish Enlightenment, a period of intellectual and cultural flourishing. His work reflected the social changes and national consciousness of late 18th-century Scotland. He was often critical of social injustices and the established church, aligning himself with reformist sentiments. His poetry captured the spirit of rural life and the burgeoning sense of Scottish identity, making him a folk hero during his lifetime and beyond. He was part of a generation of Scottish writers who sought to celebrate and preserve Scottish culture.

Personal life

Burns's personal life was tumultuous and marked by numerous romantic relationships, illegitimate children, and financial struggles. His passionate nature and strong convictions often led to conflicts with authority. His friendships, particularly with other poets and intellectuals, were important, though he also faced professional rivalries. His dedication to his family and his love for Scotland were central to his identity. His beliefs were complex, often questioning religious dogma while cherishing spiritual sentiments and humanistic values.

Recognition and reception

Burns achieved considerable fame during his lifetime, particularly after the publication of his first volume of poetry. He was celebrated in Edinburgh's literary circles, though his rural origins and sometimes unconventional lifestyle set him apart. Posthumously, his reputation grew, and he became an enduring symbol of Scottish culture. His songs and poems are now sung and recited worldwide, especially during Burns Night celebrations. His popular appeal has remained strong across centuries and social strata.

Influences and legacy

Burns was influenced by Scottish folk traditions, ballads, and poets like Allan Ramsay and Robert Fergusson. His legacy is immense; he is considered the definitive voice of Scottish poetry and song, shaping national identity and inspiring generations of Scottish writers and musicians. His works have been translated into numerous languages and continue to be performed and studied globally. His impact on the preservation and popularization of the Scots language is invaluable.

Interpretation and critical analysis

Burns's work is often interpreted through the lens of Scottish nationalism, romanticism, and social commentary. Critics debate the balance between his celebration of rural life and his critique of social structures. His use of dialect and his passionate voice invite analyses of authenticity, emotion, and cultural representation.

Curiosities and lesser-known aspects

Despite his often romanticized image, Burns faced significant financial hardship throughout his life, working as an exciseman to support his family. He was also a Freemason and held a deep interest in Scottish history and folklore. His passionate personality and sharp wit were well-known, and he was not afraid to challenge the status quo through his writings.

Death and memory

Robert Burns died at the age of 37. His death was widely mourned, and his legacy was immediately cemented through the continued publication and performance of his works. Burns Night, celebrated annually on January 25th, ensures his enduring memory and cultural significance.

Poems

69

Winter: A Dirge

Winter: A Dirge
The wintry west extends his blast,
And hail and rain does blaw;
Or the stormy north sends driving forth
The blinding sleet and snaw:
While, tumbling brown, the burn comes down,
And roars frae bank to brae;
And bird and beast in covert rest,
And pass the heartless day.
"The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast,"
The joyless winter day
Let others fear, to me more dear
Than all the pride of May:
The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul,
My griefs it seems to join;
The leafless trees my fancy please,
Their fate resembles mine!
Thou Power Supreme, whose mighty scheme
These woes of mine fulfil,
Here firm I rest; they must be best,
Because they are Thy will!
Then all I want-O do Thou grant
This one request of mine!-
Since to enjoy Thou dost deny,
Assist me to resign.
268

Ye Banks And Braes O'Bonnie Doon

Ye Banks And Braes O'Bonnie Doon
Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon,
How can ye bloom sae fair!
How can ye chant, ye little birds,
And I sae fu' o' care!
Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird
That sings upon the bough;
Thou minds me o' the happy days
When my fause Luve was true.
Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird
That sings beside thy mate;
For sae I sat, and sae I sang,
And wist na o' my fate.
Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon
To see the woodbine twine,
And ilka bird sang o' its love;
And sae did I o' mine.
Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose
Frae aff its thorny tree;
And my fause luver staw the rose,
But left the thorn wi' me.
210

Tragic Fragment

Tragic Fragment
All devil as I am-a damned wretch,
A hardened, stubborn, unrepenting villain,
Still my heart melts at human wretchedness;
And with sincere but unavailing sighs
I view the helpless children of distress:
With tears indignant I behold the oppressor
Rejoicing in the honest man's destruction,
Whose unsubmitting heart was all his crime. -
Ev'n you, ye hapless crew! I pity you;
Ye, whom the seeming good think sin to pity;
Ye poor, despised, abandoned vagabonds,
Whom Vice, as usual, has turn'd o'er to ruin.
Oh! but for friends and interposing Heaven,
I had been driven forth like you forlorn,
The most detested, worthless wretch among you!
O injured God! Thy goodness has endow'd me
With talents passing most of my compeers,
Which I in just proportion have abused-
As far surpassing other common villains
As Thou in natural parts has given me more.
228

Verses to Clarinda

Verses to Clarinda
Fair Empress of the poet's soul,
And Queen of poetesses;
Clarinda, take this little boon,
This humble pair of glasses:
And fill them up with generous juice,
As generous as your mind;
And pledge them to the generous toast,
"The whole of human kind!"
"To those nwho 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!"
247

To a Mouse, on Turning Up Her Nest With the Plough

To a Mouse, on Turning Up Her Nest With the Plough
Wee, sleeket, cowrin, tim'rous beastie,
Oh, what a panic's in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty
Wi' bickerin brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee
Wi' murd'ring pattle!
I'm truly sorry man's dominion
Has broken Nature's social union,
An' justifies that ill opinion
Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor earth-born companion,
An' fellow-mortal!
I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve:
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen icker in a thrave
'S a sma' request;
I'll get a blessin wi' the lave,
An' never miss 't!
Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
Its silly wa's the win's are strewin!
An' naething, now, to big a new ane,
O' foggage green!
An' bleak December's winds ensuin
Baith snell an' keen!
Thou saw the fields laid bare an' wast,
An' weary winter comin fast,
An' cozie here beneath the blast
Thou thought to dwell,
Till crash! the cruel coulter past
Out thro' thy cell.
That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble
Has cost thee monie a weary nibble!
Now thou's turn'd out for a' thy trouble,
But house or hald,
To thole the winter's sleety dribble
An' cranreuch cauld!
But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes o' mice an' men
Gang aft agley,
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain
For promis'd joy.
Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me!
The present only toucheth thee:
But, och! I backward cast my e'e


On prospects drear!
An' forward, tho' I canna see,
I guess an' fear!
270

To a Mountain Daisy

To a Mountain Daisy
Wee, modest, crimson-tippèd flow'r,
Thou's met me in an evil hour;
For I maun crush amang the stoure
Thy slender stem:
To spare thee now is past my pow'r,
Thou bonie gem.
Alas! it's no thy neibor sweet,
The bonie lark, companion meet,
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet
Wi' spreck'd breast,
When upward-springing, blythe, to greet
The purpling east.
Cauld blew the bitter-biting north
Upon thy early, humble birth;
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth
Amid the storm,
Scarce rear'd above the parent-earth
Thy tender form.
The flaunting flowers our gardens yield
High shelt'ring woods an' wa's maun shield:
But thou, beneath the random bield
O' clod or stane,
Adorns the histie stibble-field
Unseen, alane.
There, in thy scanty mantle clad,
Thy snawie-bosom sun-ward spread,
Thou lifts thy unassuming head
In humble guise;
But now the share uptears thy bed,
And low thou lies!
Such is the fate of artless maid,
Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade!
By love's simplicity betray'd
And guileless trust;
Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid
Low i' the dust.
Such is the fate of simple bard,
On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd!
Unskilful he to note the card
Of prudent lore,
Till billows rage and gales blow hard,
And whelm him o'er!
Such fate to suffering Worth is giv'n,
Who long with wants and woes has striv'n,
By human pride or cunning driv'n


To mis'ry's brink;
Till, wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heav'n,
He ruin'd sink!
Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate,
That fate is thine--no distant date;
Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives elate,
Full on thy bloom,
Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight
Shall be thy doom.
293

To A Louse

To A Louse
On Seeing One on a Lady's Bonnet at Church
Ha! whare ye gaun' ye crowlin ferlie?
Your impudence protects you sairly;
I canna say but ye strunt rarely
Owre gauze and lace,
Tho faith! I fear ye dine but sparely
On sic a place.
Ye ugly, creepin, blastit wonner,
Detested, shunn'd by saunt an sinner,
How daur ye set your fit upon her---
Sae fine a lady!
Gae somewhere else and seek your dinner
On some poor body.
Swith! in some beggar's hauffet squattle;
There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle;
Wi' ither kindred, jumping cattle;
In shoals and nations;
Whare horn nor bane ne'er daur unsettle
Your thick plantations.
Now haud you there! ye're out o' sight,
Below the fatt'rils, snug an tight,
Na, faith ye yet! ye'll no be right,
Till ye've got on it---
The vera tapmost, tow'rin height
O' Miss's bonnet.
My sooth! right bauld ye set your nose out,
As plump an grey as onie grozet:
O for some rank, mercurial rozet,
Or fell, red smeddum,
I'd gie you sic a hearty dose o't,
Wad dress your droddum!
I wad na been surpris'd to spy
You on an auld wife's flainen toy
Or aiblins some bit duddie boy,
On's wyliecoat;
But Miss's fine Lunardi! fye!
How daur ye do't?
O Jeany, dinna toss your head,
An set your beauties a' abread!
Ye little ken what cursed speed
The blastie's makin!
Thae winks an finger-ends, I dread,
Are notice takin!
O wad some Power the giftie gie us


To see oursels as ithers see us!
It wad frae monie a blunder free us
An foolish notion:
What airs in dress an gait wad lea'es us,
An ev'n devotion!
333

Tibbie Dunbar

Tibbie Dunbar
O, wilt thou go wi' me,
Sweet Tibbie Dunbar?
O, wilt thou go wi' me,
Sweet Tibbie Dunbar?
Wilt thou ride on a horse,
Or be drawn in a car,
Or walk by my side,
O sweet Tibbie Dunbar?
I care na thy daddie,
His lands and his money,
I care na thy kin
Sae high and sae lordly;
But say thou wilt ha'e me
For better for waur—
And come in thy coatie,
Sweet Tibbie Dunbar!
219

The Tarbolton Lasses

The Tarbolton Lasses
If ye gae up to yon hill-tap,
Ye'll there see bonie Peggy;
She kens her father is a laird,
And she forsooth's a leddy.
There Sophy tight, a lassie bright,
Besides a handsome fortune:
Wha canna win her in a night,
Has little art in courtin'.
Gae down by Faile, and taste the ale,
And tak a look o' Mysie;
She's dour and din, a deil within,
But aiblins she may please ye.
If she be shy, her sister try,
Ye'll maybe fancy Jenny;
If ye'll dispense wi' want o' sense-
She kens hersel she's bonie.
As ye gae up by yon hillside,
Speir in for bonie Bessy;
She'll gie ye a beck, and bid ye light,
And handsomely address ye.
There's few sae bonie, nane sae guid,
In a' King George' dominion;
If ye should doubt the truth o' this-
It's Bessy's ain opinion!
250

The Wounded Hare

The Wounded Hare
Inhuman man! curse on thy barb'rous art,
And blasted by thy murder-aiming eye;
May never pity soothe thee with a sigh,
Nor never pleasure glad thy cruel heart!
Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and field,
The bitter little of life that remains!
No more the thickening brakes and verdant plains
To thee shall home, or food, or pastime yield.
Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted rest,
No more of rest, but now of dying bed!
The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy head,
The cold earth with thy bloody bosom Crest.
Oft as by winding Nith I, musing, wait
The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn,
I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn,
And curse the ruffian's aim, and mourn thy hapless fate.
275

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