Robert Burns

2 months ago | audiofilemagazine.com | Robert Burns

by | Read by Forbes Masson Actor Forbes Masson is equal to the task of representing his countryman's poetry. This selection of Burns's poetry provides a fine sample of the Scottish Bard's canon, ranging from short songs to long narratives. Masson's pronunciation of the Scots versions of the poems is replete with the sounds only a native speaker can produce. He brings his skill as a performer to the different characters of Burns's poetry, from pensive lovers to social critics.

2 months ago | teatoasttrivia.com | Rebecca Budd |Robert Burns

Every January, Tea Toast & Trivia celebrates the great Scottish poet and lyricist, Robert Burns. Widely regarded as the national poet of Scotland and celebrated worldwide, Burns is best known for his poetry written in the Scots language, with works such as “Auld Lang Syne,” “Address to a Haggis,” and “Tam O’ Shanter.” His poetry reflects themes of love, nature, and Scotland’s cultural heritage.

Jan 25, 2025 | thenational.scot | Louis Hall |Robert Burns

THE distance between Scotland and Ukraine is almost 2000 miles but there is something that ties them close. While travelling between these two countries over the last few years I have come to recognise an intangible familiarity. Like a song you heard long ago but can now only remember the tune. There are explicit parallels, of course, that could be to blame. Historically for Scotland, and in the horrifying present for Ukraine, both nations have been the subject of oppression.

Feb 5, 2024 | poetryfoundation.org | Robert Burns |Rebecca Hazelton

Skip to Content O my Luve is like a red, red rose    That’s newly sprung in June; O my Luve is like the melody    That’s sweetly played in tune. So fair art thou, my bonnie lass,    So deep in luve am I; And I will luve thee still, my dear,    Till a’ the seas gang dry. Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,    And the rocks melt wi’ the sun; I will love thee still, my dear,    While the sands o’ life shall run.

Jan 26, 2024 | sandiegoreader.com | Robert Burns

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 of a grace As lang’s my arm. The groaning trencher there ye fill, Your hurdies like a distant hill, Your pin wad help to mend a mill In time o’ need, While thro’ your pores the dews distil Like amber bead.