Painters And Poets Have Liberty To Lie.

Their Sighing, Canting, Grace-proud Faces, Their Three-mile Prayers, And Half-mile Graces.

Apropos, Is Not The Scotch Phrase 'auld Lang Syne' Exceedingly Expressive? I Shall Give You The Verses On The Other Sheet. The Words Of 'auld Lang Syne' Are Good, But The Music Is An Old Air, The Rudiments Of The Modern Tune Of That Name. ... Dare To Be Honest And Fear No Labor. ... Opera Is Where A Man Gets Stabbed In The Back, And Instead Of Dying, He Sings. ... Chords That Vibrate Sweetest Pleasure Thrill The Deepest Notes Of Woe. ... Critics! Those Cut-throat Bandits In The Paths Of Fame.

Gars Auld Claes Look Amaist As Weel's The New.

But Pleasures Are Like Poppies Spread, You Seize The Flower, It's Bloom Is Shed; Or, Like The Snow-fall In The River, A Moment White, Then Melts Forever.

Some Books Are Lies Frae End To End.