The mortal sickness of a mind too unhappy to be kind.

June suns, you cannot store them To warm the winter's cold, The lad that hopes for heaven Shall fill his mouth with mould.

On Wenlock Edge the wood's in trouble;His forest fleece the Wrekin heaves;The wind it plies the saplings double, And thick on Severn snow the leaves.

To justify God's ways to man.

But if you ever come to a road where danger; Or guilt or anguish or shame's to share. Be good to the lad who loves you true, And the soul that was born to die for you; And whistle and I'll be there.

But men at whiles are sober And think by fits and starts. And if they think, they fasten Their hands upon their hearts

Ale, man, ale's the stuff to drink for fellows whom it hurts to think.