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

I'll pu' the budding rose, when Phoebus peeps in view, For its like a baumy kiss o'er her sweet bonnie mou'!

Liberty's in every blow! Let us do or die.

Now simmer blinks on flowery braes, And o'er the crystal streamlet plays.

Perhaps Dundee's wild-warbling measures rise, or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name.

The daisy's for simplicity and unaffected air.

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.

What's done we partly may compute, but know not what 's resisted.

I'm truly sorry man's dominion has broken Nature's social union.

Man,--whose heaven-erected face The smiles of love adorn,-- Man's inhumanity to man Makes countless thousands mourn!

Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.

Perhaps it may turn out a sang, perhaps turn out a sermon.

The fear o' hell 's a hangman's whip to haud the wretch in order; but where ye feel your honour grip, let that aye be your border.

There's some are fou o' love divine, There's some are fou' o' brandy.

When chill November's surly blast make fields and forest bare.

In durance vile here must I wake and weep, and all my frowsy couch in sorrow steep.

Mankind is an unco squad And muckle he may grieve thee.

O Life! how pleasant is thy morning, young Fancy's rays the hills adorning! Cold-pausing Caution's lesson scorning, we frisk away, like schoolboys at th' expected warning, to joy and play.

Prudent, cautious self-control Is wisdom's root.

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.

They never sought in vain, that sought the Lord aright.

When Nature her great masterpiece designed, and framed her last, best work, the human mind, her eye intent on all the wondrous plan, she formed of various stuff the various Man.

Inspiring bold John Barleycorn! What dangers thou canst make us scorn! Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil; wi' usquabae, we'll face the devil!

Man's inhumanity to man makes countless thousands mourn. Man was made to Mourn.

O life! thou art a galling load, along a rough, a weary road, to wretches such as I!

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, Scots, wham Bruce has aften led, welcome to your gory bed or to Victorie! Now's the day, and now's the hour; see the front o' battle lour! See approach proud Edward's power?Chains and slaverie!