Throw Not My Words Away, As Many

Burning Hot Is The Ground, Liquid Gold Is The Air; Whoever Looks Round Sees Eternity There.

Tasteful Illumination Of The Night, Bright Scattered, Twinkling Star Of Spangled Earth.

Still, I Have Been No One's Enemy But My Own. My Easy Nature, Either In Drinking Or Anything Else, Was Always Ready To Submit To Persuasions Of Profligate Companions, Who Often Led Me Into Snares.

While Snow The Window-panes Bedim, The Fire Curls Up A Sunny Charm, Where, Creaming O'er The Pitcher's Rim, The Flowering Ale Is Set To Warm; Mirth, Full Of Joy As Summer Bees, Sits There, Its Pleasures To Impart, And Children, 'tween Their Parent's Knees, Sing Scraps Of Carols O'er By Heart.

I Was Byron And Shakespeare Formerly.