To Make Three Guineas Do The Work

It's Hardly In A Body's Pow'r,to Keep, At Times, Frae Being Sour.

Flow Gently, Sweet Afton, Among Thy Green Braes, Flow Gently, I'll Sing Thee A Song In Thy Praise.

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!

Life Is But A Day At Most.

Not The Bee Upon The Blossom, In The Pride O' Sunny Noon; Not The Little Sporting Fairy, All Beneath The Simmer Moon; Not The Poet, In The Moment Fancy Lightens In His E'e, Kens The Pleasure, Feels The Rapture, That Thy Presence Gi'es To Me.