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

E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.

Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust, or flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of death?

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.

Scatter plenty o'er a smiling land.

Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.

The applause of list'ning senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their history in a nation's eyes.