Samuel Lover

Sure the shovel and tongs To each other belongs.

— Samuel Lover

But all husbands are geese, though our pride it may shock, From the first 'twas ordained so by Nature I fear; Ould…

— Samuel Lover

For dhrames always go by conthraries, my dear.

— Samuel Lover

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

— Samuel Lover

To return after long years of painful absence to some place which has been the scene of our former joys, and whence…

— Samuel Lover

Oh, happy triumph of the poet! - to hear his verses wedded to sweet sounds, and warbled by the woman he loves!

— Samuel Lover

What is wine? It is the grape present in another form; its essence is there, though the fruit which produced it grew…

— Samuel Lover

Sure my love is all crostLike a bud in the frostAnd there's no use at all in my going to bed,For 't…

— Samuel Lover

For a ballad's a thing you expect to find lies in.

— Samuel Lover

There's luck in odd numbers.

— Samuel Lover

My hearing has suffered seriously; just now I am obliged to have the assistance of an ear trumpet. Think of that, my…

— Samuel Lover

Better to be safe than sorry.

— Samuel Lover

Reproof on her lip, but a smile in her eye.

— Samuel Lover

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

— Samuel Lover

There was a place in childhood that I remember well, And there a voice of sweetest tone bright fairy tales did tell.

— Samuel Lover

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

— Samuel Lover

The neck on which diamonds might have worthily sparkled, will look less tempting when the biting winter has hung icicles there for…

— Samuel Lover

Too little is it considered, while we gaze on aristocratic beauty, how much good food, soft lying, warm wrapping, ease of mind,…

— Samuel Lover

How many chapters have been written about love verses - and how many more might be written! - might, would, could, should,…

— Samuel Lover

Where's the snow That fell the year that's fled--where's the snow?

— Samuel Lover

A baby was sleeping, Its mother was weeping.

— Samuel Lover

I'll seek a four leaved shamrock in all thy fairy dells, And if I find the charmed leaves, oh, how I'll weave…

— Samuel Lover