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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.

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
Scottish
Deer
Chasing
Heart
Highlands

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For gold the merchant ploughs the main, The farmer ploughs the manor.
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As Tammie glow'red, amazed and curious, The mirth and fun grew fast and furious.
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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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Misled by fancy's meteor ray, By passion driven But yet the light that led astray Was light from heaven.
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Beauty's of a fading nature. Has a season and is gone!
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Firmness in enduring and exertion is a character I always wish to possess. I have always despised the whining yelp of complaint and cowardly resolve.
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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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Hope springs exulting on triumphant wing.
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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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An honest man here lies at rest, the friend of man the friend of truth the friend of age and guide of youth. Few hearts like his with virtue warmed, few heads with knowledge so informed. If there's another world, he lives in bliss. If there is none, he made the best of this.
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Now's the day and now's the hour.
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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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The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men, Gang aft a-gley, And leave us nought but grief and pain, For promised joy.
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O, my luve is like a red, red rose.
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Yon rosebuds in the morning-dew, how pure amang the leaves sae green!
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What's done we partly may compute, But know not what's resisted.
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And like a passing thought, she fled In light away.
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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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The voice of Nature loudly cries,And many a message from the skies,That something in us never dies.
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