Dear Bells! How Sweet The Sound Of

A Man That's Fond Precociously Of Stirring , :;:; Must Be A Spoon.

Extremes Meet', As The Whiting Said With Its Tail In Its Mouth.

No Sun, No Moon, No Morn, No Noon, No Dawn, No Dusk, No Proper Time Of Day, . . . . . . No Road, No Street, No T' Other Side The Way, . . . . . . No Shade, No Shine, No Butterflies, No Bees, No Fruits, No Flowers, No Leaves, No Buds.

The Year's In Wane; There Is Nothing Adorning; The Night Has No Eve, And The Day Has No Morning; Cold Winter Gives Warning!

A Name, It Has More Than Nominal Worth, And Belongs To Good Or Bad Luck At Birth