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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
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Writer
Robbie Burns
Rabbie Burns
Scotland's favourite son
Ploughman Poet
Robden of Solway Firth
Bard of Ayrshire
The Bard
Robert Burns
Trying
Books
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Good
Lord
Puzzle
Men
Simple
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Depths
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Shallows
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Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.--Robert Burns
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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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Liberty's in every blow! Let us do or die.
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Nae man can tether time or tide The hour approachesTam maun ride That hour, o'night's black arch the key-stane, That dreary hourTam mounts his beast in.
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Just now I've taen the fit o' rhyme / My barmie noddle's working prime.
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To see her is to love her, And love but her forever For nature made her what she is, And never made anither!
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The best laid schemes o' mice an' men gang aft agley.
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His locked, lettered, braw brass collar, Shewed him the gentleman and scholar.
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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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Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure Thrill the deepest notes of woe.
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How wretched is the person who hangs on by the favors of the powerful.
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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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Great for good, or great for evil.
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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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Nature's law, That man was made to mourn. Man's inhumanity to man Makes countless thousands mourn! O Death, the poor man's dearest friend, The kindest and the best!
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All-cheering Plenty, with her flowing horn, Led yellow Autumn, wreath'd with nodding corn.
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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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The rank is but the guinea's stamp, The man's the gowd for a' that.
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Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie, O, what a panic's in thy breastie!
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