Quotes
Quotes - Burns
But pleasures are like poppies spread; You seize the flower, its bloom is shed. Or like the snow falls in the river, A moment white--then melts forever.
They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright!
Hear how he clears the points o' Faith Wi' rattling an' thumpin'! Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath, He's stampin', and he's jumpin'!
In durance vile here must I wake and weep, And all my frowsy couch in sorrow steep.
An Atheist's laugh's a poor exchange For Deity offended!
G-- knows I'm no the thing I should be, Nor am I even the thing I could be, But twenty times I rather would be An atheist clean, Than under gospel colours hid be, Just for a screen.
Farewell, my friends! farewell, my foes! My peace with these, my love with those. The bursting tears my heart declare; Farewell, the bonnie banks of Ayr.
Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise.
Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore, O'erhung with wild woods, thickening green; The fragrant birch and hawthorn hoar Twined amorous round the raptures scene.
I'll pu' the budding rose, when Phoebus peeps in view, For its like a baumy kiss o'er her sweet bonnie mou'!
Yon rose-buds in the morning-dew, How pure amang the leaves sae green!
O Scotia! my dear, my native soil! For whom my warmest wish to heaven is sent; Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content.
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!
Hear, Land o' Cakes, and brither Scots, Frae Maidenkirk to Johnie Groat's;- If there's a hole in a' your coats, I rede you tent it: A chield's amang you takin notes, And, faith, he'll prent it.
When chill November's surly blast make fields and forest bare.
Prudent, cautious self-control Is wisdom's root.
Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure Thrill the deepest notes of wo.
I waive the quantum o' the sin, The hazard of concealing: But, och! it hardens a' within, And petrifies the feeling!
Morality, thou deadly bane,Thy tens o' thousands thou has slain!
Now Nature hangs her mantle green On every blooming tree, And spreads her sheets o' daisies white Out o'er the grassy lea.
Now simmer blinks on flowery braes, And o'er the crystal streamlet plays.
What's a' your jargon o' your schools, Your Latin names for horns and stools; If honest nature made you fools.
What's done we partly may compute, But know not what's resisted.
Behind, he hears Time's iron gates close faintly, He is now far from them; For he has reached the city of the saintly, The New Jerusalem.
Some wee short hour ayont the twal.
