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A house is not a home.

And the daughter of Zion is left as a cottage in a vineyard, as a lodge in a garden of cucumbers, as a besieged city.

No outward doors of a man's house can in general be broken open to execute any civil process; though in criminal cases the public safety supersedes the private.

At length his lonely cot appears in view, Beneath the shelter of an aged tree; Th' expectant wee-things, toddling, stacher thro' To meet their Dad, wi' flichterin noise an' glee.

To make a happy fireside clime To weans and wife, That's the true pathos and sublime Of human life.

I've read in many a novel, that unless they've souls that grovel-- Folks prefer in fact a hovel to your dreary marble halls.

My whinstone house my castle is, I have my own four walls.

When the hornet hangs in the holly hock, And the brown bee drones i' the rose, And the west is a red-streaked four-o'clock, And summer is near its close-- It's--Oh, for the gate, and the locust lane; And dusk, and dew, and home again!

Old homes! old hearts! Upon my soul forever Their peace and gladness lie like tears and laughter.

There is no place more delightful than one's own fireside.

Home is home, though it be never so homely.

For a man's house is his castle.

The house of every one is to him as his castle and fortress, as well for his defence against injury and violence, as for his repose.

For the whole world, without a native home, Is nothing but a prison of larger room.

I am far frae my hame, an' i'm weary aften whiles, For the longed-for hame-bringing an' my Father's welcome smiles.

The house is a castle which the King cannot enter.

There's nobody at home But Jumping Joan, And father and mother and I.

The whitewash'd wall, the nicely sanded floor, The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the door; The chest contriv'd a double debt to pay, A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day.

At night returning, every labour sped, He sits him down, the monarch of a shed; Smiles by his cheerful fire, and round surveys His children's looks, that brighten at the blaze; While his lov'd partner, boastful of her hoard, Displays her cleanly platter on the board.

How small of all that human hearts endure, That part which laws or kings can cause or cure! Still to ourselves in every place consigned, Our own felicity we make or find. With secret course, which no loud storms annoy, Glides the smooth current of domestic joy.