When Chill November's Surly Blast Made Fields

O Life! Thou Art A Galling Load, Along A Rough, A Weary Road, To Wretches Such As I!

O, Life! How Pleasant Is Thy Morning, Young Fancy's Rays The Hills Adorning! Cold Pausing Caution's Lesson Scorning, We Frisk Away, Like Schoolboys, At The Expected Warning, To Joy And Play.

't Is Sweeter For Thee Despairing Than Aught In The World Beside,-jessy!

Good Lord, What Is Man! For As Simple He Looks, Do But Try To Develop His Books And His Crooks, With His Depths And His Shallows, His Good And His Evil, All In All, He's A Problem Must Puzzle The Devil.

If Heaven A Draught Of Heavenly Pleasure Spare, One Cordial In This Melancholy Vale, 't Is When A Youthful, Loving, Modest Pair In Other's Arms Breathe Out The Tender Tale