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Good Lord, what is man! for as simple he looks, Do but try to develop his books and his crooks, With his depths and his shallows, his good and his evil, All in all, he's a problem must puzzle the devil.

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
Trying
Books
Crooks
Good
Lord
Puzzle
Men
Simple
Puzzles
Evil
Depths
Problem
Simplicity
Book
Depth
Looks
Develop
Must
Devil
Shallows

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Gie me ae spark o' Nature's fire, That's a' the learning I desire.
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Hope springs exulting on triumphant wing.
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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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Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.--Robert Burns
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Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure Thrill the deepest notes of woe.
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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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Why has a religious turn of mind always a tendency to narrow and harden the heart?
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Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear.
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Just now I've taen the fit o' rhyme / My barmie noddle's working prime.
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The best laid plans take 40 years to complete.
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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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Here's to us, who's like us Damn few, and they're all dead.
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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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Gin a body meet a body Coming thro' the rye, Gin a body kiss a body— Need a body cry?
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How wretched is the person who hangs on by the favors of the powerful.
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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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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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My Son, these maxims make a rule An lump them ay thegither: The Rigid Righteous is a fool, The Rigid Wise anither.
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And like a passing thought, she fled In light away.
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Learn taciturnity and let that be your motto!
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