Where's the coward that would not dare To fight for such a land?

Breathes there the man with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land!

One hour of life, crowded to the full with glorious action, and filled with noble risks, is worth whole years of those mean observances of paltry decorum.

Discretion is being able to raise your eyebrow instead of your voice.

High minds, of native pride and force, Most deeply feel thy pangs, Remorse; Fear, for their scourge, means villains have, Thou art the torturer of the brave!

I cannot tell how the truth may be; I say the tale as 'twas said to me.