War Is The Only Game In Which

Land Of My Sires! What Mortal Hand Can E'er Untie The Filial Band That Knits Me To Thy Rugged Strand!

Covetousness Bursts The Sack And Spills The Grain.

A Sinful Heart Makes Feeble Hand.

No Scene Of Mortal Life But Teems With Mortal Woe.

There Never Will Exist Anything Permanently Noble And Excellent In The Character Which Is A Stranger To Resolute Self-denial.