Robert Burns Quotes

Scottish poet and lyricist (1759–1796)

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Robert Burns (25 January 1759 – 21 July 1796) was a poet and pioneer of the Romantic movement and after his death became an important source of inspiration to the founders of both liberalism and socialism. He is widely regarded as the national poet of Scotland.

From: Wikiquote (CC BY-SA 4.0)

Also Known As: Bard of Ayrshire

Alternative Names: Robbie Burns • Rabbie Burns • Scotland's favorite son • Ploughman Poet • The Bard • National poet of Scotland • Robden of Solway Firth

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The landlady and Tam grew gracious Wi' favours secret, sweet, and precious.

Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet To think how monie counsels sweet, How monie lengthened, sage advices, The husband frae the wife despises!

Where sits our sulky, sullen dame, Gathering her brows like gathering storm, Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here, My heart's in the Highlands, a-chasing the deer; A-chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go.

John Anderson, my jo, John, When we were first acquent, Your locks were like the raven, Your bonie brow was brent; But now your brow is beld, John, Your locks are like the snaw, But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson, my jo!

He turn'd him right and round about Upon the Irish shore; And gae his bridle reins a shake, With adieu forevermore, My dear— And adieu forevermore!

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

It was a' for our rightfu' King We left fair Scotland's strand.

But to see her was to love her; Love but her, and love for ever. Had we never lov'd sae kindly, Had we never lov'd sae blindly, Never met—or never parted, We had ne'er been broken-hearted.

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever; Ae farewell, alas, forever!

Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure Thrill the deepest notes of woe.

Ye banks and braes o' bonny Doon, How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair? How can ye chant, ye little birds, And I sae weary fu' o' care! Thou'll break my heart, thou warbling bird, That wantons thro' the flowering thorn! Thou minds me o' departed joys, Departed never to return.

Contented wi' little and cantie wi' mair.

Oh, my Luve is like a red, red rose, That's newly sprung in June. O, my Luve is like the melodie, That's sweetly played in tune.

A gaudy dress and gentle air May slightly touch the heart; But it's innocence and modesty that polished the dart.