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His locked, lettered, braw brass collar, Shewed him the gentleman and scholar.

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
Scholar
Locked
Gentleman
Shewed
Lettered
Apparel
Collar
Collars
Brass

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But to see her was to love her, Love but her, and love forever.
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Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure Thrill the deepest notes of woe.
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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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Oh would some power the gift give us, to see ourselves as others see us!
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To step aside is human.
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There is no such uncertainty as a sure thing.
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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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I have a hundred times wished that one could resign life as an officer resigns a commission.
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How wretched is the person who hangs on by the favors of the powerful.
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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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Suspense is worse than disappointment.
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Their sighing, canting, grace-proud faces, their three-mile prayers, and half-mile graces.
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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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And like a passing thought, she fled In light away.
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The best plans of men and mice often go awry.
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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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It 's guid to be merry and wise, It 's guid to be honest and true, It 's guid to support Caledonia's cause, And bide by the buff and the blue.
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The rank is but the guinea's stamp, The man's the gowd for a' that.
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Now simmer blinks on flowery braes, And o'er the crystal streamlet plays.
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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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