Oh, How Hard It Is To Find

But Sad As Angels For The Good Man's Sin, Weep To Record, And Blush To Give It In.

Where The Scriptures Speak, We Speak; Where The Scriptures Are Silent, We Are Silent.

On The Green Banks Of Shannon, When Sheelah Was Nigh, No Blithe Irish Lad Was So Happy As I, No Harp Like My Own Could So Cheerily Play, And Wherever I Went Was My Poor Dog Tray.

Triumphal Arch, That Fill'st The Sky When Storms Prepare To Part, I Ask Not Proud Philosophy To Teach Me What Thou Art.

Who Hail Thee, Man! The Pilgrim Of The Day, Spouse Of The Worm, And Brother Of The Clay.