Cats Are A Mysterious Kind Of Folk.

Still Are The Thoughts To Memory Dear.

Like The Dew On The Mountain, Like The Foam On The River, Like The Bubble On The Fountain, Thou Art Gone, And For Ever!

Breathes There The Man, With Soul So Dead, Who Never To Himself Hath Said, This Is My Own, My Native Land! Whose Heart Hath Ne'er Within Him Burn'd, As Home His Footsteps He Hath Turn'd From Wandering On A Foreign Strand! If Such There Breathe, Go Mark Him Well; For Him No Minstrel Raptures Swell; High Though His Titles, Proud His Name, Boundless His Wealth As Wish Can Claim; Despite Those Titles, Power, And Pelf, The Wretch, Concentred All In Self, Living, Shall Forfeit Fair Renown, And, Doubly Dying, Shall Go Down To The Vile Dust, From Whence He Sprung, Unwept, Unhonor'd, And Unsung.

When A Man Has Not A Good Reason For Doing A Thing, He Has One Good Reason For Letting It Alone.

Hard Toil Can Roughen Form And Face, And Want Call Quench The Eye's Bright Grace.