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The snowdrop and primrose our woodlands adorn, and violets bathe in the wet o' the morn.

Robert Burns

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Robert Burns
Age: 37 †
Born: 1759
Born: January 25
Died: 1796
Died: July 21
Farmer
Musicologist
Poet
Songwriter
Writer
Robbie Burns
Rabbie Burns
Scotland's favourite son
Ploughman Poet
Robden of Solway Firth
Bard of Ayrshire
The Bard
Robert Burns
Woodland
Violet
Woodlands
Wet
Snowdrops
Flower
Primrose
Violets
Adorn
Bathe
Morn

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God help the teacher, if a man of sensibility and genius, when a booby father presents him with his booby son, and insists on lighting up the rays of science in a fellow's head whose skull is impervious and inaccessible by any other way than a positive fracture with a cudgel.
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The wide world is all before us - but a world without a friend.
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My heart 's in the Highlands, my heart is not here My heart 's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer.
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Auld Nature swears the lovely dears Her noblest work she classes, O Her 'prentice han' she tried on man, And then she made the lasses, O!
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Firmness in enduring and exertion is a character I always wish to possess. I have always despised the whining yelp of complaint and cowardly resolve.
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The heart that is generous and kind most resembles God.
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Great for good, or great for evil.
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Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious, O'er a' the ills o' life victorious.
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Such is the fate of simple Bard, On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd
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The rank is but the guinea's stamp, The man's the gowd for a' that.
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Life is but a day at most.
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My dear, my native soil! For whom my warmest wish to Heav'n is sent, Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content!
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Some rhyme a neebor's name to lash Some rhyme (vain thought!) for needfu' cash Some rhyme to court the countra clash, An' raise a din For me, an aim I never fash I rhyme for fun.
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Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie, O, what a panic's in thy breastie!
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When matters are desperate we must put on a desperate face.
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