The Woods Were Made For The Hunter

There Are Purple Grapes In The Land Of Git-thare.

There Are Hermit Souls That Live Withdrawn In The Place Of Their Self-content; There Are Souls Like Stars That Dwell Apart, In A Fellowless Firmament; There Are Pioneer Souls That Blaze Their Paths Where Highways Never Ran,-- But Let Me Live By The Side Of The Road, And Be A Friend To Man.

Strew Gladness On The Paths Of Men-you Will Not Pass This Way Again.

Let Me Live In My House By The Side Of The Road, Where The Race Of Men Go By; They Are Good, They Are Bad; They Are Weak, They Are Strong, Wise, Foolish,--so Am I; Then Why Should I Sit In The Scorner's Seat, Or Hurl The Cynic's Ban? Let Me Live In My House By The Side Of The Road, And Be A Friend To Man.

A Hundred Thousand Men Were Led By One Calf Near Three Centuries Dead; They Followed Still His Crooked Way And Lost A Hundred Years A Day; For Thus Such Reverence Is Lent To Well Established Precedent.