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For gold the merchant ploughs the main, The farmer ploughs the manor.

Robert Burns

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Robert Burns
Age: 37 †
Born: 1759
Born: January 25
Died: 1796
Died: July 21
Farmer
Musicologist
Poet
Songwriter
Writer
Robbie Burns
Rabbie Burns
Scotland's favourite son
Ploughman Poet
Robden of Solway Firth
Bard of Ayrshire
The Bard
Robert Burns
Farmer
Farmers
Main
Gold
Ploughs
Manor
Merchant
Merchants

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His locked, lettered, braw brass collar, Shewed him the gentleman and scholar.
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Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, Scots, wham Bruce has aften led, Welcome to your gory bed, Or to victory! Now 's the day and now 's the hour See the front o' battle lour.
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Humid seal of soft affections, Tend'rest pledge of future bliss, Dearest tie of young connections, Love's first snow-drop, virgin kiss.
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And like a passing thought, she fled In light away.
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Mankind is an unco squad And muckle he may grieve thee.
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Just now I've taen the fit o' rhyme / My barmie noddle's working prime.
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The upright, honest-hearted man Who strives to do the best he can, Need never fear the church's ban Or hell's damnation.
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The best laid plans take 40 years to complete.
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Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie, O, what a panic's in thy breastie!
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Oh, stay, sweet warbling woodlark, stay, Nor quit for me the trembling spray, A hapless lover courts thy lay, Thy soothing, fond complaining.
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Who made the heart, 'tis He alone Decidedly can try us
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Now's the day and now's the hour.
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