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But to see her was to love her, Love but her, and love forever.

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
Romantic
Forever
Love

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The best-laid plans of mice and men often go awry.
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Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious, O'er a' the ills o' life victorious.
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Painters and poets have liberty to lie.
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Now Nature hangs her mantle green On every blooming tree, And spreads her sheets o'daisies white Out o'er the grassy lea.
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Dare to be honest and fear no labor.
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An atheist's laugh 's a poor exchange For Deity offended!
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When Nature her great masterpiece designed,And framed her last, best work, the human mind,Her eye intent on all the wondrous plan,She formed of various stuff the various Man.
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Now Simmer blinks on flowery braes, And o'er the chrystal streamlets plays Come let us spend the lightsome days In the birks of Aberfeldy.
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God knows, I'm no the thing I should be, Nor am I even the thing I could be.
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On Earth, Discord! A gloomy Heaven above, opening her jealous gates to the nineteen thousandth part of the tithe of mankind! And below, an inescapable & inexorable Hell, expanding its leviathan jaws for the vast residue of Mortals!
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The voice of Nature loudly cries,And many a message from the skies,That something in us never dies.
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What's a' your jargon o' your schools, Your Latin names for horns and stools If honest nature made you fools.
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My heart is sair-I dare na tell, My heart is sair for Somebody.
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Life is but a day at most.
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Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie, O, what a panic's in thy breastie!
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Misled by fancy's meteor ray, By passion driven But yet the light that led astray Was light from heaven.
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Great for good, or great for evil.
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Nae man can tether time or tide The hour approachesTam maun ride That hour, o'night's black arch the key-stane, That dreary hourTam mounts his beast in.
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Not the bee upon the blossom, In the pride o' sunny noon Not the little sporting fairy, All beneath the simmer moon Not the poet, in the moment Fancy lightens in his e'e, Kens the pleasure, feels the rapture, That thy presence gi'es to me.
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If there 's a hole in a' your coats, I rede ye tent it A chiel 's amang ye takin' notes, And, faith, he 'll prent it.
Robert Burns