If there's a hole in a' your coats,
I rede ye tent it:
A chiel's amang ye takin' notes,
And, faith, he'll prent it.
On Capt. Grose's Peregrinations Through Scotland.
R. BURNS.
A would-be satirist, a hired buffoon,
A monthly scribbler of some low lampoon.
Condemned to drudge, the meanest of the mean,
And furbish falsehoods for a magazine.
English Bards and Scotch Reviewers. LORD BYRON.
To serve thy generation, this thy fate:
"Written in water," swiftly fades thy name;
But he who loves his kind does, first and late,
A work too great for fame.
The Journalist. MRS. M. CLEMMER A. HUDSON.
This folio of four pages, happy work!
Which not e'en critics criticise; that holds
Inquisitive attention while I read,
* * * * *
What is it but a map of busy life,
Its fluctuations and its vast concerns?
'Tis pleasant, through the loop-holes of retreat,
To peep at such a world,—to see the stir
Of the great Babel, and not feel the crowd.
* * * * *
While fancy, like the finger of a clock.
Runs the great circuit, and is still at home.
Winter Evening: The Task, Bk. IV. W. COWPER.
Here shall the Press the People's right maintain,
Unawed by influence and unbribed by gain;
Here Patriot Truth her glorious precepts draw,
Pledged to Religion, Liberty, and Law.
Motto of Salem (Mass.) Register. J. STORY.