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They never sought in vain that sought the Lord alright!

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
Lord
Never
Alright
Sought
Vain
Military

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Life is but a day at most.
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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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Look abroad through Nature's range, Nature's mighty law is change.
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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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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 voice of Nature loudly cries,And many a message from the skies,That something in us never dies.
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I'm truly sorry man's dominion has broken Nature's social union.
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Oh would some power the gift give us, to see ourselves as others see us!
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Love's first snow-drop, virgin kiss.
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While Europe's eye is fix'd on mighty things, The fate of empires and the fall of kings While quacks of State must each produce his plan, And even children lisp the Rights of Man Amid this mighty fuss just let me mention, The Rights of Woman merit some attention.
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Painters and poets have liberty to lie.
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For gold the merchant ploughs the main, The farmer ploughs the manor.
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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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Their sighing, canting, grace-proud faces, their three-mile prayers, and half-mile graces.
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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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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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Oh, stay, sweet warbling woodlark, stay, Nor quit for me the trembling spray, A hapless lover courts thy lay, Thy soothing, fond complaining.
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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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There's some are fou o' love divine There's some are fou o' brandy.
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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.
Robert Burns