A baby was sleeping, Its mother was weeping.

Her beads while she numbered, The baby still slumbered, And smile in her face, as she bended her knee; Oh! bless'd be that warning, My child, thy sleep adorning, For I know that the angels are whispering with thee.

When once the itch of literature comes over a man, nothing can cure it but the scratching of a pen.

Sure the shovel and tongs / To each other belongs.

Circumstances are the rulers of the weak; they are but the instruments of the wise.

Reproof on her lips, but a smile in her eyes.