My Foot Is On My Native Heath,

Never Was Flattery Lost On A Poet's Ear; A Simple Race, They Waste Their Toil For The Vain Tribute Of A Smile.

O Come Ye In Peace Here, Or Come Ye In War, Or To Dance At Our Bridal, Young Lord Lochinvar?

Adversity Is Like The Period Of The Rain. . . Cold, Comfortless, Unfriendly To People And To Animals; Yet From That Season Have Their Birth The Flower, The Fruit, The Date, The Rose And The Pomegranate.

Do Not Christians And Heathens, And Jews And Gentiles, And Poets And Philosophers, Unite In Allowing The Starry Influences?

Who O'er The Herd Would Wish To Reign, Fantastic, Fickle, Fierce, And Vain! Vain As The Leaf Upon The Stream, And Fickle As A Changeful Dream; Fantastic As A Woman's Mood, And Fierce As Frenzy's Fever'd Blood. Thou Many-headed Monster Thing, Oh Who Would Wish To Be Thy King!