167 Total Quotes

Robert Burns Quotes Page 5

HERE Souter Hood in death does sleep; To hell if he's gane thither, Satan, gie him thy gear to keep; He'll haud it weel thegither.
Robert Burns
#Short

HERE lie Willie Michie's banes; O Satan, when ye tak him, Gie him the schulin o' your weans, For clever deils he'll mak them!
Robert Burns
#School #Short

HONEST 1 Will to Heaven's away And mony shall lament him; His fau'ts they a' in Latin lay, In English nane e'er kent them. Note 1. Of the Edinburgh High School. [back]
Robert Burns
#Short

O HAD each Scot of ancient times Been, Jeanie Scott, as thou art; The bravest heart on English ground Had yielded like a coward.
Robert Burns
#Short

THROUGH and through th' inspir'd leaves, Ye maggots, make your windings; But O respect his lordship's taste, And spare his golden bindings.
Robert Burns
#Short

NO Spartan tube, no Attic shell, No lyre ├ćolian I awake; 'Tis liberty's bold note I swell, Thy harp, Columbia, let me take! See gathering thousands, while I sing, A broken chain exulting bring, And dash it in a tyrant's face, And dare him to his very beard, And tell him he no more is feared-- No more the despot of Columbia's race! A tyrant's proudest insults brav'd, They shout--a People freed! They hail an Empire saved. Where is man's god-like form? Where is that brow erect and bold-- That eye that can unmov'd behold The wildest rage, the loudest storm That e'er created fury dared to raise? Avaunt! thou caitiff, servile, base, That tremblest at a despot's nod, Yet, crouching under the iron rod, Canst laud the hand that struck th' insulting blow! Art thou of man's Imperial line? Dost boast that countenance divine? Each skulking feature answers, No! But come, ye sons of Liberty, Columbia's offspring, brave as free, In danger's hour still flaming in the van, Ye know, and dare maintain, the Royalty of Man! Alfred! on thy starry throne, Surrounded by the tuneful choir, The bards that erst have struck the patriot lyre, And rous'd the freeborn Briton's soul of fire, No more thy England own! Dare injured nations form the great design, To make detested tyrants bleed? Thy England execrates the glorious deed! Beneath her hostile banners waving, Every pang of honour braving, England in thunder calls, "The tyrant's cause is mine!" That hour accurst how did the fiends rejoice And hell, thro' all her confines, raise the exulting voice, That hour which saw the generous English name Linkt with such damned deeds of everlasting shame! Thee, Caledonia! thy wild heaths among, Fam'd for the martial deed, the heaven-taught song, To thee I turn with swimming eyes; Where is that soul of Freedom fled? Immingled with the mighty dead, Beneath that hallow'd turf where Wallace lies Hear it not, WALLACE! in thy bed of death. Ye babbling winds! in silence sweep, Disturb not ye the hero's sleep, Nor give the coward secret breath! Is this the ancient Caledonian form, Firm as the rock, resistless as the storm? Show me that eye which shot immortal hate, Blasting the despot's proudest bearing; Show me that arm which, nerv'd with thundering fate, Crush'd Usurpation's boldest daring!-- Dark-quench'd as yonder sinking star, No more that glance lightens afar; That palsied arm no more whirls on the waste of war.
Robert Burns
#Birthday

TO Riddell, much lamented man, This ivied cot was dear; Wandr'er, dost value matchless worth? This ivied cot revere.
Robert Burns
#Short

ALTHO' my back be at the wa', And tho' he be the fautor; Altho' my back be at the wa', Yet, here's his health in water. O wae gae by his wanton sides, Sae brawlie's he could flatter; Till for his sake I'm slighted sair, And dree the kintra clatter: But tho' my back be at the wa', And tho' he be the fautor; But tho' my back be at the wa', Yet here's his health in water!
Robert Burns
#Water

THE SOLEMN League and Covenant Now brings a smile, now brings a tear; But sacred Freedom, too, was theirs: If thou'rt a slave, indulge thy sneer
Robert Burns
#Short

O THOU dread Power, who reign'st above, I know thou wilt me hear, When for this scene of peace and love, I make this prayer sincere. The hoary Sire--the mortal stroke, Long, long be pleas'd to spare; To bless this little filial flock, And show what good men are. She, who her lovely offspring eyes With tender hopes and fears, O bless her with a mother's joys, But spare a mother's tears! Their hope, their stay, their darling youth. In manhood's dawning blush, Bless him, Thou God of love and truth, Up to a parent's wish. The beauteous, seraph sister-band-- With earnest tears I pray-- Thou know'st the snares on ev'ry hand, Guide Thou their steps alway. When, soon or late, they reach that coast, O'er Life's rough ocean driven, May they rejoice, no wand'rer lost, A family in Heaven!
Robert Burns
#Prayer

IN Politics if thou would'st mix, And mean thy fortunes be; Bear this in mind, be deaf and blind, Let great folk hear and see.
Robert Burns
#Short

HERE lies John Bushby--honest man, Cheat him, Devil--if you can!
Robert Burns
#Short

THERE'S Death in the cup, so beware! Nay, more--there is danger in touching; But who can avoid the fell snare, The man and his wine's so bewitching!
Robert Burns
#Short

O HOW shall I, unskilfu', try The poet's occupation? The tunefu' powers, in happy hours, That whisper inspiration; Even they maun dare an effort mair Than aught they ever gave us, Ere they rehearse, in equal verse, The charms o' lovely Davies. Each eye it cheers when she appears, Like Phoebus in the morning, When past the shower, and every flower The garden is adorning: As the wretch looks o'er Siberia's shore, When winter-bound the wave is; Sae droops our heart, when we maun part Frae charming, lovely Davies. Her smile's a gift frae 'boon the lift, That maks us mair than princes; A sceptred hand, a king's command, Is in her darting glances; The man in arms 'gainst female charms Even he her willing slave is, He hugs his chain, and owns the reign Of conquering, lovely Davies. My Muse, to dream of such a theme, Her feeble powers surrender: The eagle's gaze alone surveys The sun's meridian splendour. I wad in vain essay the strain, The deed too daring brave is; I'll drap the lyre, and mute admire The charms o' lovely Davies.
Robert Burns
#Famous #inspirational

WILL ye go to the Hielands, Leezie Lindsay, Will ye go to the Hielands wi' me? Will ye go to the Hielands, Leezie Lindsay, My pride and my darling to be.
Robert Burns
#Short

BELOW thir stanes lie Jamie's banes; O Death, it's my opinion, Thou ne'er took such a bleth'rin bitch Into thy dark dominion!
Robert Burns
#Short

THE KING'S most humble servant, I Can scarcely spare a minute; But I'll be wi' you by an' by; Or else the Deil's be in it.
Robert Burns
#Short

BRAW, braw lads on Yarrow-braes, They rove amang the blooming heather; But Yarrow braes, nor Ettrick shaws Can match the lads o' Galla Water. But there is ane, a secret ane, Aboon them a' I loe him better; And I'll be his, and he'll be mine, The bonie lad o' Galla Water. Altho' his daddie was nae laird, And tho' I hae nae meikle tocher, Yet rich in kindest, truest love, We'll tent our flocks by Galla Water. It ne'er was wealth, it ne'er was wealth, That coft contentment, peace, or pleasure; The bands and bliss o' mutual love, O that's the chiefest warld's treasure.
Robert Burns
#Water

MY lord, I know your noble ear Woe ne'er assails in vain; Embolden'd thus, I beg you'll hear Your humble slave complain, How saucy Phoebus' scorching beams, In flaming summer-pride, Dry-withering, waste my foamy streams, And drink my crystal tide. 1 The lightly-jumping, glowrin' trouts, That thro' my waters play, If, in their random, wanton spouts, They near the margin stray; If, hapless chance! they linger lang, I'm scorching up so shallow, They're left the whitening stanes amang, In gasping death to wallow. Last day I grat wi' spite and teen, As poet Burns came by. That, to a bard, I should be seen Wi' half my channel dry; A panegyric rhyme, I ween, Ev'n as I was, he shor'd me; But had I in my glory been, He, kneeling, wad ador'd me. Here, foaming down the skelvy rocks, In twisting strength I rin; There, high my boiling torrent smokes, Wild-roaring o'er a linn: Enjoying each large spring and well, As Nature gave them me, I am, altho' I say't mysel', Worth gaun a mile to see. Would then my noble master please To grant my highest wishes, He'll shade my banks wi' tow'ring trees, And bonie spreading bushes. Delighted doubly then, my lord, You'll wander on my banks, And listen mony a grateful bird Return you tuneful thanks. The sober lav'rock, warbling wild, Shall to the skies aspire; The gowdspink, Music's gayest child, Shall sweetly join the choir; The blackbird strong, the lintwhite clear, The mavis mild and mellow; The robin pensive Autumn cheer, In all her locks of yellow. This, too, a covert shall ensure, To shield them from the storm; And coward maukin sleep secure, Low in her grassy form: Here shall the shepherd make his seat, To weave his crown of flow'rs; Or find a shelt'ring, safe retreat, From prone-descending show'rs. And here, by sweet, endearing stealth, Shall meet the loving pair, Despising worlds, with all their wealth, As empty idle care; The flow'rs shall vie in all their charms, The hour of heav'n to grace; And birks extend their fragrant arms To screen the dear embrace. Here haply too, at vernal dawn, Some musing bard may stray, And eye the smoking, dewy lawn, And misty mountain grey; Or, by the reaper's nightly beam, Mild-chequering thro' the trees, Rave to my darkly dashing stream, Hoarse-swelling on the breeze. Let lofty firs, and ashes cool, My lowly banks o'erspread, And view, deep-bending in the pool, Their shadow's wat'ry bed: Let fragrant birks, in woodbines drest, My craggy cliffs adorn; And, for the little songster's nest, The close embow'ring thorn. So may old Scotia's darling hope, Your little angel band Spring, like their fathers, up to prop Their honour'd native land! So may, thro' Albion's farthest ken, To social-flowing glasses, The grace be--"Athole's honest men, And Athole's bonie lasses!" Note 1. Bruar Falls, in Athole, are exceedingly picturesque and beautiful; but their effect is much impaired by the want of trees and shrubs.--R. B. [back]
Robert Burns
#Water

LIGHT lay the earth on Billy's breast, His chicken heart so tender; But build a castle on his head, His scull will prop it under.
Robert Burns
#Short

KEMBLE, thou cur'st my unbelief For Moses and his rod; At Yarico's sweet nor of grief The rock with tears had flow'd.
Robert Burns
#Short

HERE cursing, swearing Burton lies, A buck, a beau, or "Dem my eyes!" Who in his life did little good, And his last words were "Dem my blood!"
Robert Burns
#Short

NO more of your guests, be they titled or not, And cookery the first in the nation; Who is proof to thy personal converse and wit, Is proof to all other temptation.
Robert Burns
#Short

AGAIN rejoicing Nature sees Her robe assume its vernal hues: Her leafy locks wave in the breeze, All freshly steep'd in morning dews. Chorus.--And maun I still on Menie doat, And bear the scorn that's in her e'e? For it's jet, jet black, an' it's like a hawk, An' it winna let a body be. In vain to me the cowslips blaw, In vain to me the vi'lets spring; In vain to me in glen or shaw, The mavis and the lintwhite sing. And maun I still, &c. The merry ploughboy cheers his team, Wi' joy the tentie seedsman stalks; But life to me's a weary dream, A dream of ane that never wauks. And maun I still, &c. The wanton coot the water skims, Amang the reeds the ducklings cry, The stately swan majestic swims, And ev'ry thing is blest but I. And maun I still, &c. The sheep-herd steeks his faulding slap, And o'er the moorlands whistles shill: Wi' wild, unequal, wand'ring step, I meet him on the dewy hill. And maun I still, &c. And when the lark, 'tween light and dark, Blythe waukens by the daisy's side, And mounts and sings on flittering wings, A woe-worn ghaist I hameward glide. And maun I still, &c. Come winter, with thine angry howl, And raging, bend the naked tree; Thy gloom will soothe my cheerless soul, When nature all is sad like me! And maun I still, &c.
Robert Burns
#Spring

NOW spring has clad the grove in green, And strew'd the lea wi' flowers; The furrow'd, waving corn is seen Rejoice in fostering showers. While ilka thing in nature join Their sorrows to forego, O why thus all alone are mine The weary steps o' woe! The trout in yonder wimpling burn That glides, a silver dart, And, safe beneath the shady thorn, Defies the angler's art-- My life was ance that careless stream, That wanton trout was I; But Love, wi' unrelenting beam, Has scorch'd my fountains dry. That little floweret's peaceful lot, In yonder cliff that grows, Which, save the linnet's flight, I wot, Nae ruder visit knows, Was mine, till Love has o'er me past, And blighted a' my bloom; And now, beneath the withering blast, My youth and joy consume. The waken'd lav'rock warbling springs, And climbs the early sky, Winnowing blythe his dewy wings In morning's rosy eye; As little reck'd I sorrow's power, Until the flowery snare O'witching Love, in luckless hour, Made me the thrall o' care. O had my fate been Greenland snows, Or Afric's burning zone, Wi'man and nature leagued my foes, So Peggy ne'er I'd known! The wretch whose doom is "Hope nae mair" What tongue his woes can tell; Within whase bosom, save Despair, Nae kinder spirits dwell.
Robert Burns
#Spring

"STOP thief!" dame Nature call'd to Death, As Willy drew his latest breath; How shall I make a fool again? My choicest model thou hast ta'en.
Robert Burns
#Short

GRACIE, thou art a man of worth, O be thou Dean for ever! May he be d--d to hell henceforth, Who fauts thy weight or measure!
Robert Burns
#Short

WHEN Death's dark stream I ferry o'er, (A time that surely shall come,) In Heav'n itself I'll ask no more, Than just a Highland welcome.
Robert Burns
#Short