Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious, O’er a’ the ills o’ life victorious.
ROBERT BURNSThe upright, honest-hearted man Who strives to do the best he can, Need never fear the church’s ban Or hell’s damnation.
More Robert Burns Quotes
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Painters and poets have liberty to lie.
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I look on the opposite sex with something like the admiration with which I regard the starry sky on a frosty December night. I admire the beauty of the Creator’s workmanship, I am charmed with the wild but graceful eccentricity of the motions, and then I wish both of them goodnight.
ROBERT BURNS -
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.
ROBERT BURNS -
The best-laid plans of mice and men often go awry.
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To step aside is human.
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But to see her was to love her, Love but her, and love forever. Had we never lou’d sae kindly, Had we never lou’d sae blindly, Never met – or never parted – We had ne’er been broken hearted.
ROBERT BURNS -
To make a happy fireside clime To weans and wife, That’s the true pathos and sublime Of human life.
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Your lines, I maintain it, are poetry, and good poetry. Friendship had I been so blest as to have met with you in time, might have led me – God of love only knows where.
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God help the teacher, if a man of sensibility and genius, when a booby father presents him with his booby son, and insists on lighting up the rays of science in a fellow’s head whose skull is impervious and inaccessible by any other way than a positive fracture with a cudgel.
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Or like the snow falls in the river, A moment white-then melts for ever.
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Suspicion is a heavy armor and with its weight it impedes more than it protects.
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To see her is to love her, And love but her forever; For nature made her what she is, And never made anither!
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Oh my luve’s like a red, red rose, That’s newly sprung in June; Oh my luve’s like the melodie That’s sweetly played in tune.
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Dare to be honest and fear no labor. … Opera is where a man gets stabbed in the back, and instead of dying, he sings.
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When chill November’s surly blast Made fields and forests bare.
ROBERT BURNS