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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.

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
Front
Wallace
Battle
Scots
Hours
Bruce
Welcome
Bed
Hour
Gory
Fronts
Wham
Victory
Bled

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Ye Hypocrites, are these your pranks To murder men and gie God thanks Desist for shame, proceed no further God won't accept your thanks for murder.
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Their sighing, canting, grace-proud faces, their three-mile prayers, and half-mile graces.
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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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Never generally means at no point in time. The term comes from the words 'no' and 'ever', meaning that something is not ever going to happen. Sourced
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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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Here's to us, who's like us Damn few, and they're all dead.
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The rank is but the guinea's stamp, The man's the gowd for a' that.
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Painters and poets have liberty to lie.
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The best plans of men and mice often go awry.
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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 wisest man the warl' e'er saw, He dearly loved the lasses, O.
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Yon rosebuds in the morning-dew, how pure amang the leaves sae green!
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The best laid schemes o' mice an' men gang aft agley.
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If there 's a hole in a' your coats, I rede ye tent it A chiel 's amang ye takin' notes, And, faith, he 'll prent it.
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Dare to be honest and fear no labor.
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Now simmer blinks on flowery braes, And o'er the crystal streamlet plays.
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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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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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An atheist's laugh 's a poor exchange For Deity offended!
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The best-laid plans of mice and men often go awry.
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