Look back, and smile on perils past.

Breathes there the man with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land.

Commend me to sterling honesty though clad in rags.

Now, it is well known, that a man may with more impunity be guilty of an actual breach either of real good breeding or of good morals, than appear ignorant of the most minute point of fashionable etiquette.

One or two of these scoundrel statesmen should be shot once a-year, just to keep the others on their good behavior.

I envy thee not thy faith, which is ever in thy mouth but never in thy heart nor in thy practice

Breathes there the man, with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land! Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd, As home his footsteps he hath turn'd From wandering on a foreign strand! If such there breathe, go mark him well; For him no Minstrel raptures swell; High though his titles, proud his name, Boundless his wealth as wish can claim; Despite those titles, power, and pelf, The wretch, concentred all in self, Living, shall forfeit fair renown, And, doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust, from whence he sprung, Unwept, unhonor'd, and unsung.