That day of wrath, that dreadful day. When heaven and earth shall pass away.

Sordid selfishness doth contract and narrow our benevolence, and cause us, like serpents, to infold ourselves within ourselves, and to turn out our stings to the entire world besides.

In the lost battle, Borne down by the flying, Where mingles war's rattle With groans of the dying.

It is the privilege of tale-tellers to open their story in an inn, the free rendezvous of all travellers, and where the humour of each displays itself, without ceremony or restraint.

Love will subsist on wonderfully little hope but not altogether without it.

Is death the last sleep? No, it is the last and final awakening.

Where is the coward that would not dare to fight for such a land as Scotland?