It Was Not In The Winter Our

Comfort And Indolence Are Cronies.

While The Steeples Are Loud In Their Joy, To The Tune Of The Bells' Ring-a-ding, Let Us Chime In A Peal, One And All, For We All Should Be Able To Sing Hullah Baloo.

My Books Kept Me From The Ring, The Dog-pit, The Tavern, And The Saloon.

The Autumn Is Old; The Sere Leaves Are Flying; He Hath Gather'd Up Gold, And Now He Is Dying;- Old Age, Begin Sighing!

For Man May Pious Texts Repeat, And Yet Religion Have No Inward Seat