Hail To The Chief Who In Triumph

I Am She, O Most Bucolical Juvenal, Under Whose Charge Are Placed The Milky Mothers Of The Herd.

Come Forth, Old Man,--thy Daughter's Side Is Now The Fitting Place For Thee: When Time Has Quell'd The Oak's Bold Pride, The Youthful Tendril Yet May Hide, The Ruins Of The Parent Tree.

Breathes There The Man With Soul So Dead, Who Never To Himself Hath Said, This Is My Own, My Native Land.

In The Lost Battle, Borne Down By The Flying, Where Mingles War's Rattle With Groans Of The Dying.

There Is A Southern Proverb - Fine Words Butter No Parsnips.