A Christian's Wit Is Offensive Light, A

If A Great Man Struggling With Misfortunes Is A Noble Object, A Little Man That Despises Them Is No Contemptible One.

The Frenchman, Easy, Debonair, And Brisk, Give Him His Lass, His Fiddle, And His Frisk, Is Always Happy, Reign Whoever May, And Laughs The Sense Of Mis'ry Far Away.

The Fall Of Waters And The Song Of Birds, And Hills That Echo To The Distant Berds, Are Luxuries Excelling All The Glare The World Can Boast, And Her Chief Favorites Share.

Ten Thousand Casks, Forever Dribbling Out Their Base Contents, Touch'd By The Midas Finger Of The State, Bleed Gold For Ministers To Sport Away. Drink, And Be Mad Then; 'tis Your Country Bids!

Stamps God's Own Name Upon A Lie Just Made, To Turn A Penny In The Way Of Trade.