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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.

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
Holes
Notes
Faith
Takin
Tent
Tents
Coats
Hole

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God knows, I'm no the thing I should be, Nor am I even the thing I could be.
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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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Affliction's sons are brothers in distress A brother to relieve, how exquisite the bliss!
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To step aside is human.
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God knows, I'm not the thing I should be, Nor am I even the thing I could be, But twenty times I rather would be An atheist clean, Than under gospel colours hid be Just for a screen.
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For gold the merchant ploughs the main, The farmer ploughs the manor.
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But deep this truth impressed my mind — Thro' all his works abroad, The heart benevolent and kind The most resembles God.
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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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Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise.
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Love's first snow-drop, virgin kiss.
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The rank is but the guinea's stamp, The man's the gowd for a' that.
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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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The best laid plans take 40 years to complete.
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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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Some books are lies frae end to end.
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The heart that is generous and kind most resembles God.
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An atheist's laugh 's a poor exchange For Deity offended!
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Hope springs exulting on triumphant wing.
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Just now I've taen the fit o' rhyme / My barmie noddle's working prime.
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There's some are fou o' love divine There's some are fou o' brandy.
Robert Burns