Robert Burns Quotes

A man’s a man for a’ that.

My heart’s in the Highlands, wherever I go.

O, my love is like a red, red rose.

To see ourselves as others see us.

We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet, for auld lang syne.

The best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men gang aft a-gley.

The rank is but the guinea’s stamp, the man’s the gowd for a’ that.

Oh wad some power the giftie gie us, to see ourselves as others see us.

Auld Lang Syne (a traditional song lyrics).

The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants. (quote attributed to Robert Burns, although it is from Thomas Jefferson).

The wintry west extends his blast.

Sensibility how charming, Thou, my friend, canst truly tell; But distress, with horrors arming, Thou, alas! hast known too well!

Man’s inhumanity to man Makes countless thousands mourn!

Where sit our sulky sullen dames, Gathering her brows like gathering storm.

I waive the quantum o’ the sin, The hazard of concealing.

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

See social life and manners sweet, All guiltless joys endear’d; The courtly fair, the martial fleet, The bar, the band, the ball-room sweet, The polish’d belle, the tripping feet.

Had it please the Deity, that I had never seen the smiles of a court, nor heard of courts, courts where intrigue and malice lurk, courts where both thrones and stars have been prostituted.

There’s mony a trusted dawted dear, Wha doing well would make us fears; For instance, there’s, your cousin Shyre, Your Lordship I believe one way.

Our wishes, our joys, don’t always increase, like our wealth, by the addition of a few meer articles or ideas out of the grand magazine of fortune; for all that wealth can purchase, or power achieve.

Unsay that conceited yewn-tree it fell fast ahint me yon late gloamin.

Wee, flowery, bow’ry Clyde, Tell us if sprightly Flora ever, Kindled thy bonnie banks to love, By one enchanting river?

While ye bark at honest Poverty Ye’ll ne’er be worth a groat.

Is there for honest Poverty That hangs his head, and a’ that? The coward-slave, we pass him by, We dare be poor for a’ that! For a’ that, and a’ that, Our toils obscure, and a’ that. The rank is but the guinea’s stamp, The Man’s the gowd for a’ that.

When nature her great master-piece 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.

Such is the fate of simple Bard, On life’s rough ocean luckless starr’d, Unskilled in juggling trickery.

O thou, my muse! Guid auld Scotch drink! Whether through wimplin worms thou jink, Or, richly brown, ream owre the brink.

And when death comes at last—to bring ye hame, And kiss the hallowed ashes o’ your flame.

In many a temple’s statued shrine, We may our great forefathers see— The winding stairs that round us twine, Initiated they may be.

A man may drink, and no be drunk; A man may fight, and no be slain; A man may kiss a bonie lass, And aye be welcome back again.

Lord grant that day may come, and soon, Society shall cease to be a mooted point.

Resistless squadrons of diseases sweep, desolating kingdoms like a mighty deluge or devouring like a roaring flame.

But thou, O Genius! Careless view the ruins of a falling state.

But deep this truth impressed my mind—Through all His works abroad, The heart benevolent and kind The most resembles God.

It’s no in titles nor in rank; It’s no in wealth like London bank; To purchase peace and rest, I’d break through a’ the gangs o’ Hell, To save a slut.

In every rank, or great or small / ‘Tis industry supports us all.

The star that lately shone did bright: The ‘glow-worm’ lighted up the night. Returning Time saw Brunsw’ck’s form: Thus through a cloud our lustrous orb. Around the gen’ral roaring yell Sweedlik and Selwin! fellow-wells.

The fav’rite Bard that paints the Faes, The murd’ring Minister of State, The Hero of Politic, peep thro’ the Key-hole o’ doctrine high.

For observation in a corner, Came ill-natured, old, Miss Prim, Chiel Satan’s barb’rous, hope-na-tae-fine mettle Scotch, damn’d Rosin’-Jean.

It makes me so cautionsly creep.

Oh, black’s the colour o’ my heart Wi’ noo that I am forced to part Wi’ Stiward, sinister –

Breathes there the man, with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land!

Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides.

Oh, gift of God! Oh, perfect day! Wherein this rugged mortal clay Shall weakly bear a brother!

Wi’ nae prodigious tunnage ploise, See trumpet with a smellfu’ noise.