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I'll be merry and free, I'll be sad for nae-body If nae-body cares for me, I'll care for nae-body.

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
Care
Body
Merry
Contentment
Cares
Free

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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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The wide world is all before us - but a world without a friend.
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Great for good, or great for evil.
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The best plans of men and mice often go awry.
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Affliction's sons are brothers in distress A brother to relieve, how exquisite the bliss!
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While Europe's eye is fix'd on mighty things, The fate of empires and the fall of kings While quacks of State must each produce his plan, And even children lisp the Rights of Man Amid this mighty fuss just let me mention, The Rights of Woman merit some attention.
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If naebody care for me,I'll care for naebody.
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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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The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men, Gang aft a-gley, And leave us nought but grief and pain, For promised joy.
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Why has a religious turn of mind always a tendency to narrow and harden the heart?
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Mankind is a science that defies definitions.
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There's some are fou o' love divine There's some are fou o' brandy.
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Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure Thrill the deepest notes of woe.
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Or like the snow falls in the river, A moment white-then melts for ever . . .
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What's done we partly may compute, But know not what's resisted.
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Here's to us, who's like us Damn few, and they're all dead.
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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.
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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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Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie, O, what a panic's in thy breastie!
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Some books are lies frae end to end.
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