Heaven Know Its Time; The Bullet Has

Profan'd The God-given Strength, And Marr'd The Lofty Line.

One Crowded Hour Of Glorious Life Is Worth An Age Without A Name

Land Of My Sires! What Mortal Hand Can E'er Untie The Filial Band That Knits Me To Thy Rugged Strand!

Honour Is A Homicide And A Bloodspiller, That Gangs About Making Frays In The Street; But Credit Is A Decent Honest Man, That Sits At Hame And Makes The Pat Play.

I Envy Thee Not Thy Faith, Which Is Ever In Thy Mouth But Never In Thy Heart Nor In Thy Practice