Painters And Poets Have Liberty To Lie.

For Gold The Merchant Ploughs The Main, The Farmer Ploughs The Manor.

And Like A Passing Thought, She Fled In Light Away.

The Best Laid Schemes O' Mice An' Men Gang Aft Agley.

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!

Who Made The Heart, 'tis He Alone Decidedly Can Try Us