The Book of Books Within this ample volume lies The mystery of mysteries. Happiest they of human race To whom their God has given grace To read, to fear, to hope, to pray, To lift the latch, to force the way; But better had they ne'er been born That read to doubt or read to scorn.

Meat eaten without either mirth or music is ill of digestion.

The will to do, the soul to dare..

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

Then hush thee, my darling, take rest while you may, For strife comes with manhood, and waking with day.

Welcome as the flowers in May.

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.