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Updated: June 15, 2025
"I made use o' my wits an' the harbor bes rich." "Saints pity ye, Denny! Rich? The folk o' this harbor bain't intended for riches. Take a care, Denny, for the devil bes in it. Saints presarve us! No good never did come to this harbor out o' wracks, Denny. Me own father was drunk wid rum out o' a wrack when he fell over the edge o' the cliff, an' broke his neck on the land-wash.
Ponder old history, and duly frame Your souls to meek acceptance of the thong. Lo! of hundreds who aspire, Eighties perish-nineties tire! They who bear up, in spite of wrecks and wracks, Were season 'd by celestial hail of thwacks. Fortune in this mortal race Builds on thwackings for its base; Thus the All-Wise doth make a flail a staff, And separates his heavenly corn from chaff.
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