The Mother's Kiss Is The Sweetest Thing

Round The World And Home Again, That's The Sailor's Way!

Yet Dearer Still That Irish Hill Than All The World Beside; It's Home, Sweet Home, Where'er I Roam, Through Lands And Waterswide.

Politeness Costs Nothing. Nothing, That Is, To Him That Shows It; But If Often Costs The World Very Dear.

Pluck Not The Wayside Flower; It Is The Traveler's Dower.

Now Autumn's Fire Burns Slowly Along The Woods And Day By Day The Dead Leaves Fall And Melt.