Oft in the stilly night, Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Fond memory brings the light Of other days around me; The smiles, the tears, Of boyhood's years, The words of love then spoken; The eyes that shone Now dimmed and gone, The cheerful hearts now broken.

Man, while he loves, is never quite depraved.

For God's sake (I never was more serious) don't make me ridiculous any more by terming me gentle-hearted in print.

Oh, the pleasure of eating my dinner alone!

The drinking man is never less himself than during his sober intervals.

Oh for a tongue to curse the slave Whose treason, like a deadly blight, Comes o'er the councils of the brave, And blasts them in their hour of might!

Who has not felt how sadly sweet The dream of home, the dream of home, Steals o'er the heart, too soon to fleet, When far o'er sea or land we roam?