Robert Burns, aka Rabbie Burns, Scotland's favourite son, the Ploughman Poet, Robden of Solway Firth, the Bard of Ayrshire and in Scotland as simply The Bard

It is cruelty to be humane to rebels, and humanity is cruelty.

Midnight - that hour of night's black arch the keystone.

O Mary, at thy window be! It is the wished, the trysted hour.

She is a winsome wee thing, She is a handsome wee thing, She is a bonny wee thing, This sweet wee wife o' mine.

The landlady and Tam grew gracious Wi' favours secret, sweet and precious.

Though losses and crosses be lessons right severe, there's wit there ye'll get there, ye'll find no other where.

Whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad.

It was a' for our rightfu' King we left fair Scotland's strand.

Misled by fancy's meteor ray, by passion driven; but yet the light that led astray was light from heaven.

O Scotia! my dear, my native soil! For whom my warmest wish to heaven is sent; Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content.

Some books are lies frae end to end.

The landlady and Tam grew gracious wi' favours secret, sweet, and precious.

To liken them to your auld-warld squad, I must needs say comparisons are odd.

Wi' merry sangs, an' friendly cracks, I wat they did na weary; and unco tales, an' funnie jokes, their sports were cheap an' cheary: till buttr'd So'ns, wi' fragrant lunt, set a' their gabs a steerin; syne, wi' a social glass o' strunt, they parted aff careerin fu' blythe that night.

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!

Morality, thou deadly bane, Thy tens o' thousands thou has slain!

O Thou, whatever title suit theee! Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie, wha in you cavern grim an' sooty clos'd under hatches, spairges about the brunstane cootie, to scaud poor wretches! Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee, an' let poor, damned bodies bee; I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie, ev'n to a deil, to skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me, an' hear us squeel!

Some say kissing is a sin; but if it was na lawful, lawyers would na allow it; if it was na holy, ministers would na do it; if it was na modest, maidens would na take it; if it was na plenty, puir folk would na get it.

The landlord's laugh was ready chorus.

To make a happy fire-side clime to weans and wife, that's the true pathos and sublime of human life.

Ye banks and braes o' bonny Doon, how can ye bloom sae fresh and fair? How can ye chant, ye little birds, and I sae weary fu' o' care! Thou'll break my heart, thou warbling bird, that wantons thro' the flowering thorn! Thou minds me o' departed joys, departed never to return.

It's hardly in a body's pow'r, to keep, at times, frae being sour.

Mourn, little harebells, o'er the lea; Ye stately foxgloves fair to see! Ye woodbines, hanging bonnilie In scented bowers! Ye roses on your thorny tree the first o' flow'rs.

O wad some power the giftie gie us To see oursel's as ithers see us! It wad frae monie a blunder free us. And foolish notion; what airs in dress and gait wad lea'e us, and ev'n devotion!

Some wee short hour ayont the twal.