Nicander, ooh, your leg's got hairs!
Watch they don't creep up into your arse.
Because, darling, if they do, you'll soon know
How the lovers flee you, and years go.

We owe, alas! to woman's sin
The woes with which we grapple;—
To think that all our plagues came in
For one poor stolen apple!
And still we love the darling thief
Whose rosy fingers stole it;—
Her weakness brought the world to grief,
Her smiles alone console it!
—I take the “stolen” fruit you leave,—
(Forgive me, Maid and Madam,)
It makes me dream that you are Eve,
And wish that I were Adam!

OFFSPRING of Heav'n we bend to thee,
Sweet smiling goddess liberty!
Thy presence we adore;
Still with thy fav'rite isle reside,
And constant as the flowing tide,
Thy energies restore!
That fell security may never prove,
The grave of freedom, and of public love:

For ah! on ev'ry side, appears
The rusting hand of fleeting years,
And dire corruption's blast;
Thy Athens once so bless'd, and free!
Is curs'd with chains and infamy,
And Sparta's pride is pass'd!
Long hast thou left the fertile vales of Greece,

Blithe the bright dawn found me,
Rest with strength had crown'd me,
Sweet the birds sang around me
Sport was their toil.

The horn its clang was keeping,
Forth the fox was creeping,
Round each dame stood weeping,
O'er the prowler's spoil.

Hark! the foe is calling,
Fast the woods are falling,
Scenes and sights appalling
Mark the wasted soil.

War and confiscation
Curse the fallen nation;
Gloom and desolation
Shade the lost land o'er,

Chill the winds are blowing,
Death aloft is going,
Peace or hope seems growing

Here 's, a bottle and an honest friend!
What wad ye wish for mair, man?
Wha kens, before his life may end,
What his share may be of care, man.

Then catch the moments as they fly,
And use them as ye ought, man:—
Believe me, happiness is shy,
And comes not ay when sought, man.

I KNOW that death is God's interpreter:
His quiet voice makes gracious meanings clear
In grievous things that vex us deeply here
Between the cradle and the sepulchre.
We, gazing into darkness, greatly err,
And fear the shrouded shadow of a fear
Till dawn reveals the vestments of a Seer
With gifts of gold and frankincense and myrrh.
There is a mystery I cannot read
Around the mastery I no more dread;
For love is but a heart to brood and bleed,
And life is but a dream among the dead
Whose wisdom waits for us. God give me heed

O her hair is as dark as the midnight wave,
And her eye is like kindling fire,
And her voice is sweet as the spirit's voice
That chords with the seraph's lyre.

But her nails are as sharp as a toasting fork,
And her arms as strong as a bear's;
She pulled my hair, and she gouged my eye,
And she kicked me down the stairs.

I've got me an eye that's made of—glass,
And I've got me a wig that's new,—
The wig is frizzled in cork screw curls,
And the eye is a clouded blue.

She may shake her knuckles full in my face,

Who says a painting must look like life?
He sees only with children's eyes.
Who says a poem must stick to the theme?
Poetry is certainly lost on him.
Poetry and painting share a single goal—
clean freshness and effortless skill.
Pien Luan's sparrows live on paper;
Chao Ch'ang's flowers breathe with soul.
But what are they beside these scrolls,
bold sketches, with spirit in every stroke?
Who'd think one dot of red
could call up a whole unbounded spring!

A Shepherd kept Sheep in a Hill so high, fa, la, la, etc.
And there came a pretty Maid passing by, fa, la, etc.
Shepherd, quoth she, dost thou want e'er a Wife,
No by my troth I'm not weary of my Life, fa, la, la, etc.

Shepherd for thee I care not a Fly, fa, la, la,
For thou'st not the Face with a fair Maid to lie, fa, la,
How now my Damsel, say'st thou me so,
Thou shalt tast of my bottle before thou dost go, fa, la.

Then he took her and laid her upon the Ground, fa, la,
And made her believe that the World went round, fa, la,

Love for all! and can it be?
Can I hope it is for me?
I, who strayed so long ago,
Strayed so far, and fell so low!

I, the disobedient child,
Wayward, passionate, and wild;
I, who left my Father's home
In forbidden ways to roam!

I, who spurned his loving hold,
I, who would not be controlled;
I, who would not hear his call,
I, the willful prodigal?

I, who wasted and misspent
Every talent he had lent;
I, who sinned again, again,
Giving every passion rein!

To my Father can I go?—
At his feet myself I'll throw,