Pluck Not The Wayside Flower; It Is

Solitude Is Very Sad, Too Much Company Twice As Bad.

I Believe In Success, And In Comfort No Less I Believe All The Rest Is But Patter.

Yet Dearer Still That Irish Hill Than All The World Beside; It's Home, Sweet Home, Where'er I Roam, Through Lands And Waterswide.

Now Autumn's Fire Burns Slowly Along The Woods And Day By Day The Dead Leaves Fall And Melt.

Fairies, Arouse! Mix With Your Song Harplet And Pipe, Thrilling And Clear, Swarm On The Boughs! Chant In A Throng! Morning Is Ripe, Waiting To Hear.