Rich in saving common-sense, And, as the greatest only are, In his simplicity sublime.

For this is England's greatest son, He that gain'd a hundred fights, And never lost an English gun.

Tis not too late to seek a newer world.

In words, like weeds, I'll wrap me o'er, Like coarsest clothes against the cold

Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great.

Happy he With such a mother! faith in womankind Beats with his blood, and trust in all things high Comes easy to him; and tho' he trip and fall, He shall not blind his soul with clay.

And down I went to fetch my bride: But, Alice, you were ill at ease; This dress and that by turns you tried, Too fearful that you should not please. I loved you better for your fears, I knew you could not look but well; And dews, that would have fall'n in tears, I kiss'd away before they fell.