Thou surely art not sunk so low
That strangers can alone restore thee:
No; Europe waits the final blow,
When superstition flies before thee.
For Spanish might through Spanish hands
Their freedom only can restrain,
Then sweep these Carlists from the land,
Down with kingcraft, weeping Spain.
Christmas Day.
Sweet lady, ’tis no troubadour,
That sings so sweetly at your door,
To tell you of the joys in store,
So grand and gay;
But one that sings remember th’ poor,
’Tis Christmas Day.
Within some gloomy walls to-day
Just cheer the looks of hoary gray,
And try to smooth their rugged way
With cheerful glow;
And cheer the widow’s heart, I pray,
Crushed down with woe.
O make the weary spent-up glad,
And cheer the orphan lass and lad;
Make frailty’s heart, so long, long sad,
Your kindness feel;
And make old crazy-bones stark mad
To dance a reel.
Then peace and plenty be your lot,
And may your deed ne’er be forgot,
That helps the widow in her cot,
From of your store;
Nor creed nor seed should matter not,
The poor are poor.
What Profits Me.
What profits me tho’ I sud be
The lord o’ yonder castle gay;
Hev rooms in state ta imitate
The princely splendour of the day,
Fer what are all mi carved doors,
Mi shandeliers or carpet floors,
No art cud save me from the grave.
What profits me tho’ I sud be
Decked e’ costly costumes grand,
Like the Persian king o’ kings,
With diamond rings to deck mi hand:
Fer what wor all mi grand attire,
That fooils both envy and admire,
No gems cud save me from the grave.
What profits me tho’ I sud be
Thy worthy host, O millionaire,
Hev cent. for cent. for money lent;
My wealth increasing ivvery year.
For what wor all mi wealth to me,
Compared ta loisin immortalite,
Wealth cud not save me from the grave.