The Mortal Sickness Of A Mind Too

Who Made The World I Cannot Tell; 'tis Made, And Here Am I In Hell. My Hand, Though Now My Knuckles Bleed, I Never Soiled With Such A Deed.

Shoulder The Sky, My Lad, And Drink Your Ale.

These, In The Day When Heaven Was Falling, The Hour When Earth's Foundations Fled, Followed Their Mercenary Calling And Took Their Wages And Are Dead. The British Regulars Who Made The Retreat From Mons, Beginning August 24, 1914.

Hope Lies To Mortals And Most Believe Her, But Man's Deceiver Was Never Mine.

The Bells They Sound On Bredon, And Still The Steeples Hum. "come All To Church, Good People"- Oh, Noisy Bells, Be Dumb; I Hear You, I Will Come.