“The snowdrop and primrose our woodlands adorn, and violets bathe in the wet o’ the morn.”

There is no such uncertainty as a sure thing.

When chill November’s surly blast Made fields and forests bare.

Now’s the day and now’s the hour.

Some books are lies frae end to end.

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.

To make a happy fireside clime To weans and wife, That’s the true pathos and sublime Of human life.

And like a passing thought, she fled In light away.

Inspiring bold JohnBarleycorn! What dangers thou canst make us scorn! Wi’ usquebae, we’ll face the devil!

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

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.

Again rejoicing Nature sees Her robe assume its vernal hues Her leafy locks wave in the breeze, All freshly steep’d in the morning dews.

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

Nature’s law, That man was made to mourn. Man’s inhumanity to man Makes countless thousands mourn! O Death, the poor man’s dearest friend, The kindest and the best!

Firmness in enduring and exertion is a character I always wish to possess. I have always despised the whining yelp of complaint and cowardly resolve.

Nae man can tether time or tide.

Critics! Those cut-throat bandits in the paths of fame.