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To make three guineas do the work of five.

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
Work
Make
Guineas
Guinea
Economy
Five
Three

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Some books are lies frae end to end.
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Again rejoicing Nature sees Her robe assume its vernal hues Her leafy locks wave in the breeze, All freshly steep'd in the morning dews.
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The best-laid plans of mice and men often go awry.
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Liberty's in every blow! Let us do or die.
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They never sought in vain that sought the Lord alright!
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But to see her was to love her, Love but her, and love forever.
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But to see her was to love her, Love but her, and love forever. Had we never lou'd sae kindly, Had we never lou'd sae blindly, Never met - or never parted - We had ne'er been broken hearted
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For gold the merchant ploughs the main, The farmer ploughs the manor.
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That hour o' night's black arch the keystane.
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Affliction's sons are brothers in distress A brother to relieve, how exquisite the bliss!
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Once upon a Lammas Night When corn rigs are bonny, Beneath the Moon's unclouded light, I held awhile to Annie... The time went by with careless heed Between the late and early, With small persuasion she agreed To see me through the barley... Corn rigs and barley rigs, Corn rigs are bonny! I'll not forget that happy night Among the rigs with Annie!
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When matters are desperate we must put on a desperate face.
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O, my luve is like a red, red rose.
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An atheist's laugh 's a poor exchange For Deity offended!
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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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Life is but a day at most.
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My dear, my native soil! For whom my warmest wish to Heav'n is sent, Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content!
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Why has a religious turn of mind always a tendency to narrow and harden the heart?
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Gin a body meet a body Coming thro' the rye, Gin a body kiss a body— Need a body cry?
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And wild-scatter'd cowslips bedeck the green dale.
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