Jock, when ye hae naething else to do, ye may be aye sticking in a tree; it will be growing, Jock, when ye 're sleeping.

I will tear this folly from my heart, though every fibre bleed as I rend it away!

Stood for his country's glory fast, And nailed her colors to the mast!

Whose lenient sorrows find relief, whose joys are chastened by their grief.

November's sky is chill and drear, November's leaf is red and sear.

Look back, and smile on perils past.

Ridicule often checks what is absurd, and fully as often smothers that which is noble.