The Happy Combination Of Fortuitous Circumstances.

Tell That To The Marines - The Sailors Won't Believe It.

Breathes There The Man With Soul So Dead, Who Never To Himself Hath Said, This Is My Own, My Native Land.

He Hath A Share Of Man's Intelligence, But No Share Of Man's Falsehood.

Spangling The Wave With Lights As Vain As Pleasures In The Vale Of Pain, That Dazzle As They Fade.

Credit Is Like A Looking-glass, Which When Once Sullied By A Breath, May Be Wiped Clear Again; But If Once Cracked Can Never Be Repaired.