Quotes by Robert Burns

Her face is fair, her heart is true; As spotless as she's bonie, O: The op'ning gowan, wat wi' dew, Nae purer is than Nanie, O. A country lad is my degree, An' few there be that ken me, O; But what care I how few they be, I'm welcome aye to Nanie, O. My riches a's my penny-fee, An' I maun guide it cannie, O; But warl's gear ne'er troubles me, My thoughts are a' my Nanie, O. Our auld guidman delights to view His sheep an' kye thrive bonie, O; But I'm as blythe that hands his pleugh, An' has nae care but Nanie, O. Come weel, come woe, I care na by; I'll tak what Heav'n will sen' me, O: Nae ither care in life have I, But live, an' love my Nanie, O. Song--Green Grow The Rashes A Fragment Chor.--Green grow the rashes, O; Green grow the rashes, O; The sweetest hours that e'er I spend, Are spent amang the lasses, O. There's nought but care on ev'ry han', In ev'ry hour that passes, O: What signifies the life o' man, An' 'twere na for the lasses, O. Green grow, &c. The war'ly race may riches chase, An' riches still may fly them, O; An' tho' at last they catch them fast, Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O. Green grow, &c. But gie me a cannie hour at e'en, My arms about my dearie, O; An' war'ly cares, an' war'ly men, May a' gae tapsalteerie, O! Green grow, &c. For you sae douce, ye sneer at this; Ye're nought but senseless asses, O: The wisest man the warl' e'er saw, He dearly lov'd the lasses, O. Green grow, &c. Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears Her noblest work she classes, O: Her prentice han' she try'd on man, An' then she made the lasses, O. Green grow, &c. Song--Wha Is That At My Bower-Door Tune--"Lass, an I come near thee." "Wha is that at my bower-door?" "O wha is it but Findlay!" "Then gae your gate, ye'se nae be here:" "Indeed maun I," quo' Findlay; "What mak' ye, sae like a thief?

I have not passed half the ordinary term of an old man's life, and yet I scarcely look over the obituary of a newspaper that I do not see some names that I have known, and which I and other acquaintances little thought to meet with there so soon. Every other instance of the mortality of our kind makes us cast an anxious look into the dreadful abyss of uncertainty, and shudder with apprehension for our own fate. But of how different an importance are the lives of different individuals! Nay, of what importance is one period of the same life more than another? A few years ago I could have lain down in the dust, "careless of the voice of the morning;" and now not a few, and these most helpless individuals, would, on losing me and my exertions, lose both "staff and shield." By the way, these helpless ones have lately got an addition--Mrs. B. having given me a fine girl since I wrote you. There is a charming passage in Thomson's" Edward and Eleanora:" The valiant, _in himself_ what can he suffer? Or what need he regard his _single_ woes? (etc.) I do not remember to have heard you mention Thomson's dramas. I pick up favourite quotations, and store them in my mind as ready armour, offensive or defensive, amid the struggle of this turbulent existence. Of these is one, a very favourite one, from his "Alfred:" Attach thee firmly to the virtuous deeds And offices of life; to life itself, With all its vain and transient joys, sit loose. Probably I have quoted these to you formerly, as indeed, when I write from the heart, I am apt to be guilty of repetitions. The compass of the heart, in the musical style of expression, is much more bounded than that of the imagination; so the notes of the former are extremely apt to run into one another; but in return for the paucity of its compass, its few notes are much more sweet.... I see you are in for double postage, so I shall e'en scribble out t'other sheet. We in this country here have many alarms of the reforming, or rather the republican spirit, of your part of the kingdom. Indeed, we are a good deal in commotion ourselves. For me, I am a placeman, you know; a very humble one indeed, Heaven knows, but still so much as to gag me. What my private sentiments are, you will find out without an interpreter.

Sir,--I have a good while had a wish to trouble you with a letter, and had certainly done it long ere now, but for a humiliating something that throws cold water on the resolution, as if one should say, "You have found Mr. Graham a very powerful and kind friend indeed, and that interest he is so kindly taking in your concerns, you ought by everything in your power to keep alive and cherish." Now, though since God has thought proper to make one powerful and another helpless, the connection of obliger and obliged is all fair; and though my being under your patronage is to me highly honourable, yet, Sir, allow me to flatter myself that,--as a poet and an honest man you first interested yourself in my welfare, and principally as such still, you permit me to approach you. I have found the Excise business go on a great deal smoother with me than I expected; owing a good deal to the generous friendship of Mr. Mitchell, my collector, and the kind assistance of Mr. Findlater, my supervisor. I dare to be honest, and I fear no labour. Nor do I find my hurried life greatly inimical to my correspondence with the Muses. Their visits to me, indeed, and I believe to most of their acquaintance, like the visits of good angels, are short and far between; but I meet them now and then as I jog through the hills of Nithsdale, just as I used to do on the banks of Ayr. I take the liberty to inclose you a few bagatelles, all of them the productions of my leisure thoughts in my excise rides. If you know or have ever seen Captain Grose, the antiquarian, you will enter into any humour that is in the verses on him. Perhaps you have seen them before, as I sent them to a London newspaper. Though, I dare say, you have none of the solemn-league-and-covenant fire, which shone so conspicuous in Lord George Gordon, and the Kilmarnock weavers, yet I think you must have heard of Dr. M'Gill, one of the clergymen of Ayr, and his heretical book. God help him, poor man! Though he is one of the worthiest, as well as one of the ablest of the whole priesthood of the Kirk of Scotland, in every sense of that ambiguous term, yet the poor Doctor and his numerous family are in imminent danger of being thrown out to the mercy of the winter-winds.

She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May; She's sweet as the ev'ning amang the new hay; As blythe and as artless as the lambs on the lea, And dear to my heart as the light to my e'e. But oh! she's an Heiress, auld Robin's a laird, And my daddie has nought but a cot-house and yard; A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed, The wounds I must hide that will soon be my dead. The day comes to me, but delight brings me nane; The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane; I wander my lane like a night-troubled ghaist, And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my breast. O had she but been of a lower degree, I then might hae hop'd she wad smil'd upon me! O how past descriving had then been my bliss, As now my distraction nae words can express. The Rights Of Woman An Occasional Address. Spoken by Miss Fontenelle on her benefit night, November 26, 1792. While Europe's eye is fix'd on mighty things, The fate of Empires and the fall of Kings; While quacks of State must each produce his plan, And even children lisp the Rights of Man; Amid this mighty fuss just let me mention, The Rights of Woman merit some attention. First, in the Sexes' intermix'd connection, One sacred Right of Woman is, protection.-- The tender flower that lifts its head, elate, Helpless, must fall before the blasts of Fate, Sunk on the earth, defac'd its lovely form, Unless your shelter ward th' impending storm. Our second Right--but needless here is caution, To keep that right inviolate's the fashion; Each man of sense has it so full before him, He'd die before he'd wrong it--'tis decorum.-- There was, indeed, in far less polish'd days, A time, when rough rude man had naughty ways, Would swagger, swear, get drunk, kick up a riot, Nay even thus invade a Lady's quiet. Now, thank our stars! those Gothic times are fled; Now, well-bred men--and you are all well-bred-- Most justly think (and we are much the gainers) Such conduct neither spirit, wit, nor manners. For Right the third, our last, our best, our dearest, That right to fluttering female hearts the nearest; Which even the Rights of Kings, in low prostration, Most humbly own--'tis dear, dear admiration!

Thy minions, kings defend, controul devour, In all th' omnipotence of rule and power: Foxes and statesmen subtle wiles ensure; The cit and polecat stink, and are secure: Toads with their poison, doctors with their drug, The priest and hedgehog, in their robes, are snug: E'en silly women have defensive arts, Their eyes, their tongues--and nameless other parts. But O thou cruel stepmother and hard, To thy poor fenceless, naked child, the Bard! A thing unteachable in worldly skill, And half an idiot too, more helpless still: No heels to bear him from the op'ning dun, No claws to dig, his hated sight to shun: No horns, but those by luckless Hymen worn, And those, alas! not Amalthea's horn: No nerves olfact'ry, true to Mammon's foot, Or grunting, grub sagacious, evil's root: The silly sheep that wanders wild astray, Is not more friendless, is not more a prey; Vampyre--booksellers drain him to the heart, And viper--critics cureless venom dart. Critics! appll'd I venture on the name, Those cut-throat bandits in the paths of fame, Bloody dissectors, worse than ten Monroes, He hacks to teach, they mangle to expose: By blockhead's daring into madness stung, His heart by wanton, causeless malice wrung, His well-won ways--than life itself more dear-- By miscreants torn who ne'er one sprig must wear; Foil'd, bleeding, tortur'd in th' unequal strife, The hapless Poet flounces on through life, Till, fled each hope that once his bosom fired, And fled each Muse that glorious once inspir'd, Low-sunk in squalid, unprotected age, Dead even resentment for his injur'd page, He heeds no more the ruthless critics' rage. So by some hedge the generous steed deceas'd, For half-starv'd, snarling curs a dainty feast; By toil and famine worn to skin and bone, Lies, senseless of each tugging bitch's son. A little upright, pert, tart, tripping wight, And still his precious self his dear delight; Who loves his own smart shadow in the streets, Better than e'er the fairest she he meets; Much specious lore, but little understood, (Veneering oft outshines the solid wood), His solid sense, by inches you must tell, But mete his cunning by the Scottish ell!

My friends, for such the world calls ye, and such ye think yourselves to be, pass by my virtues if you please, but do, also, spare my follies; the first will witness in my breast for themselves, and the last will give pain enough to the ingenuous mind without you. And since deviating more or less from the paths of propriety and rectitude must be incident to human nature, do thou, Fortune, put it in my power, always from myself, and of myself, to bear the consequence of those errors! I do not want to be independent that I may sin, but I want to be independent in my sinning. To return in this rambling letter to the subject I set out with, let me recommend my friend, Mr. Clarice, to your acquaintance and good offices; his worth entitles him to the one, and his gratitude will merit the other. I long much to hear from you. Adieu! R. B. [Footnote 121: Dr. Robertson, uncle to Mr. Alexander Cunningham.] * * * * * CLXVL--To MR. THOMAS SLOAN.[122] ELLISLAND, _Sept. 1st_, 1791. My Dear Sloan,--Suspense is worse than disappointment; for that reason I hurry to tell you that I just now learn that Mr. Ballantine does not choose to interfere more in the business. I am truly sorry for it, but cannot help it. You blame me for not writing you sooner, but you will please to recollect that you omitted one little necessary piece of information;--your address. However, you know equally well my hurried life, indolent temper, and strength of attachment. It must be a longer period than the longest life "in the world's hale and undegenerate days," that will make me forget so dear a friend as Mr. Sloan. I am prodigal enough at times, but I will not part with such a treasure as that. I can easily enter into the _embarras_ of your present situation. You know my favourite quotation from Young-- On Reason build RESOLVE! That column of true majesty in man,-- and that other favourite one from Thomson's "Alfred"-- What proves the hero truly GREAT, Is, never, never to despair. Or, shall I quote you an author of your acquaintance?