Tomorrow Let Us Do Or Die!

For There No Yew Nor Cypress Spread Their Glom But Roses Blossom'd Each Rustic Tomb.

The Soul Of Conversation Is Sympathy

Coming Events Cast Their Shadows Before.

On The Green Banks Of Shannon, When Sheelah Was Nigh, No Blithe Irish Lad Was So Happy As I, No Harp Like My Own Could So Cheerily Play, And Wherever I Went Was My Poor Dog Tray.

Who Hath Not Own'd, With Rapture-smitten Frame, The Power Of Grace, The Magic Of A Name.