Six days he does no work, and

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 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

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 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.

Other Bards I envy not — Room there is for all, God wot — All I ask is room for me On the top branch of the tree.

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.