Never A Lip Is Curved With Pain

Never A Tear Bedims The Eye That Time And Patience Will Not Dry.

The Delicate Thought, That Cannot Find Expression, For Ruder Speech Too Fair, That, Like Thy Petals, Trembles In Possession, And Scatters On The Air.

For The Glory Born Of Goodness Never Dies, And Its Flag Is Not Half-masted In The Skies.

Thiar Ain't No Sense In Gittin' Riled!

Which I Wish To Remark-- And My Language Is Plain,-- That For Ways That Are Dark And For Tricks That Are Vain, The Heathen Chinee Is Peculiar.