Without One Friend, Above All Foes, Britannia

The Path Of Sorrow, And That Path Alone, Leads To The Land Where Sorrow Is Unknown.

Call'd To The Temple Of Impure Delight He That Abstains, And He Alone, Does Right. If A Wish Wander That Way, Call It Home; He Cannot Long Be Safe Whose Wishes Roam.

Some Drill And Bore The Solid Earth, And From The Strata There Extract A Register, By Which We Learn, That He Who Made It, And Reveal'd Its Date To Moses, Was Mistaken In Its Age.

[my Kitten's] Gambols Are Not To Be Described, And Would Be Incredible, If They Could.

Ten Thousand Casks, Forever Dribbling Out Their Base Contents, Touch'd By The Midas Finger Of The State, Bleed Gold For Ministers To Sport Away. Drink, And Be Mad Then; 'tis Your Country Bids!