The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

And hie him home, at evening's close, To sweet repast and calm repose.

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Awaits alike th' inevitable hour. The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Alas, regardless of their doom, the little victims play! No sense have they of ills to come nor care beyond today.

If the best man's faults were written on his forehead, he would draw his hat over his eyes.

Chill penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.