Whose lines are mottoes of the heart,Whose truths electrify the sage.
He scorn'd his own, who felt another's woe.
Our land, the first garden of liberty's tree-- It has been, and shall be, the land of the free.
For Beauty's tears are lovelier than her smile.
On the green banks of Shannon, when Sheelah was nigh, No blithe Irish lad was so happy as I, No harp like my own could so cheerily play, And wherever I went was my poor dog Tray.
But sad as angels for the good man's sin, Weep to record, and blush to give it in.