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For thus the royal mandate ran, When first the human race began, The social, friendly honest man, Whate'er he be, Tis he fulfils great Nature's plan, And none but he!

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
Great
Honest
Ran
Men
Race
Friendly
Social
Began
Nature
Honesty
Fulfils
Firsts
Thus
Whate
Human
Plan
Mandate
Humans
None
Mandates
First
Plans
Royal

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Oh would some power the gift give us, to see ourselves as others see us!
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Beauty's of a fading nature. Has a season and is gone!
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The best laid schemes o' mice an' men gang aft agley.
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An atheist's laugh 's a poor exchange For Deity offended!
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I'm truly sorry man's dominion has broken Nature's social union.
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How wretched is the person who hangs on by the favors of the powerful.
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Some hae meat and canna eat, And some wad eat that want it, But we hae meat and we can eat, And sae the Lord be thankit.
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Again rejoicing Nature sees Her robe assume its vernal hues Her leafy locks wave in the breeze, All freshly steep'd in the morning dews.
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Nature's law, That man was made to mourn. Man's inhumanity to man Makes countless thousands mourn! O Death, the poor man's dearest friend, The kindest and the best!
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Affliction's sons are brothers in distress A brother to relieve, how exquisite the bliss!
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Inspiring bold JohnBarleycorn! What dangers thou canst make us scorn! Wi' usquebae, we'll face the devil!
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Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear.
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The snowdrop and primrose our woodlands adorn, and violets bathe in the wet o' the morn.
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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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Their sighing, canting, grace-proud faces, their three-mile prayers, and half-mile graces.
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Love's first snow-drop, virgin kiss.
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The wide world is all before us - but a world without a friend.
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Life is but a day at most.
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Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious, O'er a' the ills o' life victorious.
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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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