Ben Battle Was A Soldier Bold, And

Oh! God! That Bread Should Be So Dear, And Flesh And Blood So Cheap!

Oh, If It Be To Choose And Call Thee Mine, Love, Thou Art Every Day My Valentine!

The Autumn Is Old; The Sere Leaves Are Flying; He Hath Gather'd Up Gold, And Now He Is Dying;- Old Age, Begin Sighing!

It Was Not In The Winter Our Loving Lot Was Cast! It Was The Time Of Roses, We Plucked Them As We Passed!

Well For The Drones Of The Social Hive That There Are Bees Of An Industrious Turn, Willing, For An Infinitesimal Share Of The Honey, To Undertake The Labor Of Its Fabrication.