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Painters and poets have liberty to lie.

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
Painting
Liberty
Lying
Painters
Poets
Painter
Poet

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O Scotia! my dear, my native soil! For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent
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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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Suspense is worst than disappointment.
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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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All-cheering Plenty, with her flowing horn, Led yellow Autumn, wreath'd with nodding corn.
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Mankind is an unco squad And muckle he may grieve thee.
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Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear.
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O, my luve is like a red, red rose.
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And let us mind, faint heart ne'er wan A lady fair. Wha does the utmost that he can Will whyles do mair.
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Humid seal of soft affections, Tend'rest pledge of future bliss, Dearest tie of young connections, Love's first snow-drop, virgin kiss.
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The upright, honest-hearted man Who strives to do the best he can, Need never fear the church's ban Or hell's damnation.
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Oh would some power the gift give us, to see ourselves as others see us!
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His locked, lettered, braw brass collar, Shewed him the gentleman and scholar.
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Great for good, or great for evil.
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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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Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, Scots, wham Bruce has aften led, Welcome to your gory bed, Or to victory! Now 's the day and now 's the hour See the front o' battle lour.
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There's some are fou o' love divine There's some are fou o' brandy.
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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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And wild-scatter'd cowslips bedeck the green dale.
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