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My Son, these maxims make a rule An lump them ay thegither: The Rigid Righteous is a fool, The Rigid Wise anither.

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
Righteous
Son
Rule
Fool
Wise
Lump
Make
Lumps
Rigid
Maxims

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Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet To think how monie counsels sweet, How monie lengthened sage advices, The husband frae the wife despises.
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O Life! thou art a galling load, Along a rough, a weary road, To wretches such as I!
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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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Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.--Robert Burns
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Suspense is worst than disappointment.
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The best plans of men and mice often go awry.
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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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The best laid schemes o' mice an' men gang aft agley.
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The best laid plans take 40 years to complete.
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The heart that is generous and kind most resembles God.
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The great Creator to revere Must sure become the creature But still the preaching cant forbear, And ev'n the rigid feature: Yet ne'er with wits profane to range Be complaisance extendedAn atheist laugh's a poor exchange For deity offended.
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I'll be merry and free, I'll be sad for nae-body If nae-body cares for me, I'll care for nae-body.
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Gie me ae spark o' Nature's fire, That's a' the learning I desire.
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As Tammie glow'red, amazed and curious, The mirth and fun grew fast and furious.
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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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Their sighing, canting, grace-proud faces, their three-mile prayers, and half-mile graces.
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Ye Hypocrites, are these your pranks To murder men and gie God thanks Desist for shame, proceed no further God won't accept your thanks for murder.
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Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie, O, what a panic's in thy breastie!
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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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Gin a body meet a body Coming thro' the rye, Gin a body kiss a body— Need a body cry?
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