Who is Robert Burns

Robert Burns (25 January 1759 – 21 July 1796), also known familiarly as Rabbie Burns, the National Bard, Bard of Ayrshire and the Ploughman Poet and various other names and epithets,[nb 1] was a Scottish poet and lyricist. He is widely regarded as the national poet of Scotland and is celebrated worldwide. He is the best known of the poets who have written in the Scots language, although much of his writing is also in English and a light Scots dialect, accessible to an audience beyond Scotland. He also wrote in standard English, and in these writings his political or civil commentary is often at its bluntest.

He is regarded as a pioneer of the Romantic movement, and after his death he became a great source of inspiration to the founders of both liberalism ...
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Top 10 most used topics by Robert Burns

Heart 333 I Love You 261 Love 261 Never 200 Dear 192 Life 186 Night 184 Sweet 183 Poor 165 Wild 134

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Comments about Robert Burns

  • Burns_creighton: "any person who selects a goal in life which can be fully achieved has already defined his own limitations." -- robert cavett
  • Ayocaesar: this will be the defining image of the tournament: a group of young guys rallying around their friend and teammate, doing the right thing to preserve his dignity despite their own shock and devastation. the humanity of this moment completely transcends the sport.
  • Richardjmurphy: guess which country is recovering worst from covid? thank you boris johnson and rishi sunak:
  • Shannygasm: random science fact: if you light your farts on fire, the flames will be blue. methane is the flammable gas in farts, and it burns blue. a really pretty shade, too!
  • Winningwriters: "a red, red rose", a poem by robert burns |
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Richard C Martin: A great poet, whose works I turn to when I need to water my Scottish roots.

Poem of the day

Alfred Lord Tennyson Poem
In Memoriam A. H. H. OBIIT MDCCCXXXIII: Part 071
 by Alfred Lord Tennyson

Sleep, kinsman thou to death and trance
And madness, thou hast forged at last
A night-long Present of the Past
In which we went thro' summer France.

Hadst thou such credit with the soul?
Then bring an opiate trebly strong,
Drug down the blindfold sense of wrong

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