He's just, your cousin, ay, abhorrently, He'd wash his hands in blood, to keep them clean.

World's use is cold, world's love is vain, world's cruelty is bitter bane; but is not the fruit of pain.

And that dismal cry rose slowly And sank slowly through the air, Full of spirit's melancholy And eternity's despair; And they heard the words it said,- "Pan is dead! great Pan is dead! Pan, Pan is dead!"

With stammering lips and insufficient sound I strive and struggle to deliver right the music of my nature.

And I smiled to think God's greatness flowed around our incompleteness; Round our restlessness, His rest.

Let us be content to work To do the things we can, and not presume To fret because it's little.

Never say No when the world says Aye.