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

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.

And there is even a happiness That makes the heart afraid.

The Autumn is old; The sere leaves are flying; He hath gather'd up gold, And now he is dying;- Old age, begin sighing!

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

Ben Battle was a soldier bold, and used to war's alarms, But a cannon-ball took off his legs, so he laid down his arms.

Half of the failures in life come from pulling one's horse when he is leaping.