A Careless Shoe String, In Whose Tie

Here A Little Child I Stand, Heaving Up My Either Hand; Cold As Paddocks Though They Be, Here I Lift Them Up To Thee, For A Benison To Fall On Our Meat, And On Us All. Amen.

My Soul I'll Pour Into Thee.

Tis Not The Food, But The Content, That Makes The Table's Merriment.

God Doth Not Promise Here To Man That Hewill Free Him Quickly From His Misery;but In His Own Time, And When He Thinks Fit,then He Will Give A Happy End To It.

Like Will To Like, Each Creature Loves His Kind.