There's not a string attuned to mirth, But has its chord in melancholy.

Who backs his rigid Sabbath, so to speak, Against the wicked remnant of the week."

To his tuned spirit the wild heather-bells Ring Sabbath knells; The sod's a cushion for his pious want, And, consecrated by the heaven within it, The sky-blue pool a font.

The more the eggs, the worse the hatch, The more the fish, the worse the catch.

The mind flies back with a grand recoil From debts not due till to-morrow.

The doctors gave her over--to an ass.