Try to be conspicuously accurate in everything, pictures as well as text. Truth is not only stranger than fiction, it read more

Try to be conspicuously accurate in everything, pictures as well as text. Truth is not only stranger than fiction, it is more interesting.

A Fourth Estate, of Able Editors, springs up.

A Fourth Estate, of Able Editors, springs up.

The Scots are poor, cries surly English pride;
True is the charge, nor by themselves denied.
Are read more

The Scots are poor, cries surly English pride;
True is the charge, nor by themselves denied.
Are they not then in strictest reason clear,
Who wisely come to mend their fortunes here?

Great is journalism. Is not every able editor a ruler of the
world, being the persuader of it?

Great is journalism. Is not every able editor a ruler of the
world, being the persuader of it?

The editor sat in his sanctum, his countenance furrowed with
care,
His mind at the bottom of business, read more

The editor sat in his sanctum, his countenance furrowed with
care,
His mind at the bottom of business, his feet at the top of a
chair,
His chair-arm an elbow supporting, his right hand upholding his
head,
His eyes on his dusty table, with different documents spread.

To serve thy generation, this thy fate:
"Written in water," swiftly fades thy name;
But he who read more

To serve thy generation, this thy fate:
"Written in water," swiftly fades thy name;
But he who loves his kind does, first and late,
A work too late for fame.

Had Cain been Scot, God would have changed his doom
Nor forced him wander, but confine him home.

Had Cain been Scot, God would have changed his doom
Nor forced him wander, but confine him home.

O Scotia! my dear, my native soil!
For whom my warmest wish to heaven is sent;
Long read more

O Scotia! my dear, my native soil!
For whom my warmest wish to heaven is sent;
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil
Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content.

Now the summer's in prime
Wi' the flowers richly blooming,
And the wild mountain thyme
read more

Now the summer's in prime
Wi' the flowers richly blooming,
And the wild mountain thyme
A' the moorlands perfuming.
To own dear native scenes
Let us journey together,
Where glad innocence reigns
'Mang the braes o' Balquhither.