If a faultless poem could be produced, I am satisfied it would tire the critics themselves; and annoy the whole reading world with the spleen.

'Tis an old tale, and often told; But did my fate and wish agree, Ne'er had been read, in story old, Of maiden true betray'd for gold, That loved, or was avenged, like me!

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

As good play for nothing, you know, as work for nothing.

I was born a Scotsman and a bare one. Therefore I was born to fight my way in the world.

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.

Give me an honest laugher.