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

John Anderson, my jo, John, when we were first acquent, Your locks were like the raven, your bonie brow was brent; but now your brow is beld, John, your locks are like the snaw, but blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson, my jo!

My dear, my native soil! For whom my warmest wish to Heav'n is sent, Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content!

O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad: tho' father and mither and a' should gae mad.

Stern Ruin's plowshare drives elate, full on thy bloom.

The rank is but the guinea's stamp, the man's the gowd for a' that. For a' that an a' that.

To see her is to love her, and love but her forever; For Nature made her what she is, And never made another.

Ye're aiblins nae temptation.

John Barleycorn got up again, and sore surprised them all.

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here, my heart's in the Highlands, a-chasing the deer; a-chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, my heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go.

O would some power the gift to give us to see ourselves as others see us.

Suspense is worse than disappointment.

The snowdrop and primrose our woodlands adorn, And violets bathe in the wet o' the morn.

We twa hae run about the braes, And pu'd the gowans fine.

Yon rose-buds in the morning-dew, How pure amang the leaves sae green!

John Barleycorn was a hero bold, of noble enterprise, For if you do but taste his blood, 'Twill make your courage rise, Twill make a man forget his wo; 'Twill heighten all his joy.

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here; My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer.

Oh, my Luve is like a red, red rose, that's newly sprung in June. O, my Luve is like the melodie, that's sweetly played in tune.

Suspicion is a heavy armor and with its weight it impedes more than it protects.

The social, friendly, honest man, whate'er he be, 'tis he fulfills great Nature's plan, and none but he!

Wee, modest, crimson-tippŠd flow'r, thou's met me in an evil hour; for I maun crush amang the stoure thy slender stem: to spare thee now is past my pow'r, thou bonie gem.

Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious, O'er a' the ills o' life victorious.

My love she's but a lassie yet, my love she's but a lassie yet; we'll let her stand a year or twa, she'll no be half sae saucy yet. It concludes, enigmatically: we're a' dry wi' drinking o't, we're a' dry wi' drinking o't: the minister kisst the fidler's wife, he could na preach for thinkin o't.--

Oh, stay, sweet warbling woodlark, stay, Nor quit for me the trembling spray, A hapless lover courts thy lay, Thy soothing, fond complaining.

'T is sweeter for thee despairing than aught in the world beside,?Jessy!

The voice of Nature loudly cries, and many a message from the skies, that something in us never dies.