Books by Robert Burns

Quotes by Robert Burns
I'm truly sorry man's dominion
Has broken Nature's social union.
It's hardly in a body's pow'r,
To keep, at times, frae being sour.
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to min'?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And days o' auld lang syne?
Nature's law,
That man was made to mourn.
Man's inhumanity to man
Makes countless thousands mourn.
Man was made to Mourn.
Misled by fancy's meteor ray,
By passion driven;
But yet the light that led astray
Was light from heaven.
She is a winsome wee thing,
She is a handsome wee thing,
She is a lo'esome wee thing,
This sweet wee wife o' mine.
An atheist-laugh's a poor exchange
For Deity offended.
This day, Time winds th' exhausted chain,
To run the twelvemonth's length again.
I waive the quantum o' the sin,
The hazard of concealing:
But, och! it hardens a' within,
And petrifies the feeling!
But, oh! fell death's untimely frost,
That nipt my flower sae early.
The voice of Nature loudly cries,
And many a message from the skies,
That something in us never dies.
He wales a portion with judicious care;
And "Let us worship God" he says, with solemn air.
O Mary, at thy window be!
It is the wished, the trysted hour.
Suspense is worse than disappointment.
If naebody care for me,
I'll care for naebody.
The social, friendly, honest man,
Whate'er he be,
'Tis he fulfills great Nature's plan,
And none but he!
Stern Ruin's plowshare drives elate,
Full on thy bloom.
For a' that and a' that,
It's coming yet, for a' that,
That man to man the world o'er
Shall brothers be for a' that.
Beauty's of a fading nature
Has a season and is gone!
Green grow the rashes, O;
Green grow the rashes, O;
The sweetest hours that e'er I spend
Are spent among the lasses, O.
'''For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne,
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet
For auld lang syne!'''
On ev'ry hand it will allowed be,
He's just-nae better than he should be.
Lay the proud usurpers low!
Tyrants fall in every foe!
Liberty's in every blow-
Let us do or die!
If there's a hole in a' your coats,
I rede you tent it;
A chield's aman you takin' notes,
And faith he'll prent it.
Some books are lies frae end to end.
John Barleycorn got up again,
And sore surprised them all.
Perhaps it may turn out a sang,
Perhaps turn out a sermon.
His locked, lettered, braw brass collar
Showed him the gentleman an' scholar.
The rank is but the guinea's stamp,
The man's the gowd for a' that.
For a' that an a' that.
O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad:
Tho' father and mither and a' should gae mad.
Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears
Her noblest work she classes, O:
Her prentice han' she tried on man,
An' then she made the lasses, O.
Then gently scan your brother man,
Still gentler sister woman;
Tho' they may gang a kennin wrang,
To step aside is human.
The golden Hours on angel wings
Flew o'er me and my Dearie;
For dear to me as light and life
Was my sweet Highland Mary.
An' there began a lang digression
About the lords o' the creation.
There's nought but care on ev'ry han',
In every hour that passes, O:
What signifies the life o' man,
An' then she made the lasses, O.
The heart benevolent and kind
The most resembles God.
The best laid schemes o' mice and men
Gang aft a-gley;
And leave us naught but grief and pain
For promised joy.
Robert Burns's Biography
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