A Few Drops Sprinkled On The Torch

O Woman! In Our Hours Of Ease Uncertain, Coy, And Hard To Please, And Variable As The Shade By The Light Quivering Aspen Made; When Pain And Anguish Wring The Brow, A Ministering Angel Thou!

High Minds, Of Native Pride And Force, Most Deeply Feel Thy Pangs, Remorse; Fear, For Their Scourge, Means Villains Have, Thou Art The Torturer Of The Brave!

Many Of Our Cares Are But A Morbid Way Of Looking At Our Privileges

Thou And I Are But The Blind Instruments Of Some Irresistible Fatality, That Hurries Us Along, Like Goodly Vessels Driving Before The Storm, Which Are Dashed Against Each Other, And So Perish.

Oh, Brignall Banks Are Wild And Fair, And Greta Woods Are Green, And You May Gather Garlands There Would Grace A Summer's Queen.