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Breathes there the man with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
This is my read more
Breathes there the man with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
This is my own, my native land!
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd,
As home his footsteps he hath turn'd,
From wandering on a foreign strand!
The mind that broods o'er guilty woes
Is like a scorpion girt by fire.
The mind that broods o'er guilty woes
Is like a scorpion girt by fire.
The jackdaw, stript of her stolen colours, provokes our laughter.
The jackdaw, stript of her stolen colours, provokes our laughter.
A childs service is little, yet hee is no little foole that
despiseth it.
A childs service is little, yet hee is no little foole that
despiseth it.
To go where the King goes afoot (i.e. to the stool).
To go where the King goes afoot (i.e. to the stool).
To go upon the Franciscans Hackney (i.e. on foot).
To go upon the Franciscans Hackney (i.e. on foot).
Dry feet, warme head, bring safe to bed.
Dry feet, warme head, bring safe to bed.
