I Never Yet Did Hear, That The

I See You Stand Like Greyhounds In The Slips, Straining Upon The Start. The Game's Afoot; Follow Your Spirit: And Upon This Charge, Cry — God For Harry! England And Saint George!

But Whate'er You Are That In This Desert Inaccessible, Under The Shade Of Melancholy Boughs, Lose And Neglect The Creeping Hours Of Time; If You Have Ever Looked On Better Days, If Ever Been Where Bells Knoll'd To Church, If Ever Sat At Any Good Man's Feast, If Ever From Your Eyelids Wiped A Tear, And Know What 'tis To Pity And Be Pitied, Let Gentleness My Strong Enforcement Be. . . .

Heaven Give You Many, Many Merry Days.

Bad Is The Trade That Must Play Fool To Sorrow, Ang'ring Itself And Others.

Tears Water Our Growth.