Robert Burns has been dead for two hundred and thirty years. He was a farmer's son from Ayrshire who wrote in Scots, drank too much, loved badly and often, and died at thirty-seven.
Burns Was Right takes one line at a time - what he actually meant, and why it still lands. No academic distance, no reverence for its own sake. Just Burns on love, pride, grief, and getting through an ordinary day.
He was writing in the 1700s. Annoyingly, he still has a point.