Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold! Bright And Yellow,

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

Sweet Are The Little Brooks That Run O'er Pebbles Glancing In The Sun, Singing In Soothing Tones.

Spontaneously To God Should Turn The Soul, Like The Magnetic Needle To The Pole; But What Were That Intrinsic Virtue Worth, Suppose Some Fellow, With More Zeal Than Knowledge, Fresh From St. Andrew's College, Should Nail The Conscious Needle To The North?

What Is Mind? No Matter. What Is Matter? Never Mind. What Is The Soul? It Is Immaterial.

A Certain Portion Of The Human Race Has Certainly A Taste For Being Diddled.