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

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.

Laden with unhonoured years, noosing with care a bursting purse, baited with many a deadly curse?

Nature's law, that man was made to mourn.

Oh, 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.

That hour o' night's black arch the keystane.

The wide world is all before us-- But a world without a friend.

Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie, O, what a panic's in thy breastie! Thou need na start awa sae hasty, wi' bickering brattle!

If there's another world, he lives in bliss; if there is none, he made the best of this.

Lay the proud usurpers low! Tyrants fall in every foe! Liberty's in every blow?Let us do or die!

Now a' is done that men can do, and a' is done in vain.

On ev'ry hand it will allowed be, he's just?nae better than he should be.

The best laid schemes o' Mice an' Men, gang aft agley, an' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain, for promis'd joy! (The best laid schemes of Mice and Men oft go awry, and leave us nothing but grief and pain, for promised joy!)

Then gently scan your brother man, Still gentler sister woman; Though they may gang a' kennin' wrang To step aside is human.

Weel done, Cutty Sark!

Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear.

Let them cant about decorum, Who have characters to lose!

Now blooms the lily by the bank, The primrose down the brae; The hawthorn's budding in the glen, The milkwhite is the slae.

Opera is where a guy gets stabbed in the back, and instead of dying, he sings.

The best laid schemes o' mice and men gang aft a-gley; and leave us naught but grief and pain for promised joy.

Then horn for horn they stretch and strive; Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive.

Were such the wife had fallen to my part, I'd break her spirit, or I'd break her heart.

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.

Let us do or die.

Now Nature hangs her mantle green On every blooming tree, And spreads her sheets o' daisies white Out o'er the grassy lea.

Or were I in the wildest waste, sae black and bare, sae black and bare, the desert were a paradise, if thou wert there, if thou wert there.