Of all vices, drinking is the most incompatible with greatness.
Soldier, rest! Thy warfare o'er, Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking, Dream of battled fields no more. Days of danger, nights of waking.
But woe awaits a country when She sees the tears of bearded men.
Steady of heart and stout of hand.
Look back, and smile on perils past.
The way was long, the wind was cold, The Minstrel was infirm and old; His withered cheek, and tresses gray, Seemed to have know a better day.