Other Bards I envy not —

Six days he does no work, and The seventh takes for rest.

Must we all in grovel wallow Like to bisons in a bog — Must we call him an Apollo If he is not quite a hog?

The narrow, thorny path he trod. "Enter into My joy," said God. The sad ascetic shook his head; "I've lost all taste for joy," he said.

Ah apple caused man's fall, as some believe; But that old Snake, malevolently wise, A deadlier snare set when he left to Eve His tongue of honey and mesmeric eyes.

The Missionary labours With zeal, and pious art, And rice, and cabin biscuit, In hope to change his heart;And dear old British ladies The Lord would fain cajole, And humbly crave that He will save

There's rest and peace in plenty here, and eggs and milk to spare; The scenery is calm and sane, and wholesome is the air; The folk are kind, the cows behave like cousins unto me ... But please the Lord, on Monday morn, I'm leaving Arcady.