Painters and poets have liberty to lie.

The snowdrop and primrose our woodlands adorn, and violets bathe in the wet o' the morn.

Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie, O, what a panic's in thy breastie!

Should auld acquaintance be forgot and never brought to mind? Should auld acquaintance be forgot and days of auld lang syne? For auld lang syne, my dear, for auld lang syne, we'll take a cup of kindness yet, for auld lang syne.

Man's inhumanity to man makes countless thousands mourn!

Good Lord, what is man! for as simple he looks, Do but try to develop his books and his crooks, With his depths and his shallows, his good and his evil, All in all, he's a problem must puzzle the devil.

O, wad some Power the giftie gie us To see oursels as others see us! It wad frae monie a blunder free us, An' foolish notion.