Each Age Has Deemed The New-born Year

Where, Where Was Roderick Then? One Blast Upon His Bugle Horn Were Worth A Thousand Men.

My Foot Is On My Native Heath, And My Name Is Macgregor.

The Lover's Pleasure, Like That Of The Hunter, Is In The Chase, And The Brightest Beauty Loses Half Its Merit, As The Flower Its Perfume, When The Willing Hand Can Reach It Too Easily. There Must Be Doubt; There Must Be Difficulty And Danger.

The Will To Do, The Soul To Dare..

Covetousness Bursts The Sack And Spills The Grain.