Better build schoolrooms for "the boy,"/ Than cells and gibbets for "the man." |
How cruelly sweet are the echoes that start, When memory plays an old tune on the heart |
I love it, I love it; and who shall dare / To chide me for loving that old arm-chair? |
The coward wretch whose hand and heart Can bear to torture ought below, Is ever first to quail and start From the slightest pain or equal foe. |
There's a magical tie to the land of our home, which the heart cannot break, though the footsteps may roam. |
Though language forms the preacher, 'Tis good works make the man. |
Who would not rather trust and be deceived? |
Why should we strive, with cynic frown, to knock their fairy castles down? |