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

I like a highland friend who will stand by me not only when I am in the right, but when I am a little in the wrong.

...crystal and hearts would lose all their merit in the world if it were not for their fragility.

A few drops sprinkled on the torch of love make the flame blaze the brighter.

Guilt, though it may attain temporal splendor, can never confer real happiness; the evil consequences of our crimes long survive their commission, and, like the ghosts of the murdered, forever haunt the steps of the malefactor; while the paths of virtue, though seldom those of worldly greatness, are always those of pleasantness and peace.

O Caledonia! stern and wild, Meet nurse for a poetic child! Land of brown heath and shaggy wood; Land of the mountain and the flood!

Literature is a great staff, but a very sorry crutch.