Gold! gold! gold! gold! Bright and yellow, hard and cold!

What is mind? No matter. What is matter? Never mind. What is the soul? It is immaterial.

And ye, who have met with Adversity's blast, And been bow'd to the earth by its fury; To whom the Twelve Months, that have recently pass'd Were as harsh as a prejudiced jury - Still, fill to the Future! and join in our chime, The regrets of remembrance to cozen, And having obtained a New Trial of Time, Shout in hopes of a kindlier dozen.

The Quaker loves an ample brim, A hat that bows to no salaam; And dear the beaver is to him As if it never made a dam.

Some dreams we have are nothing else but dreams, Unnatural and full of contradictions; Yet others of our most romantic schemes, Are something more than fictions.

There is not a string attuned to mirth but has its chord of melancholy.

But evil is wrought by want of thought, As well as want of heart!