For Grease a wish; for Grease a tear!
Must I but wish for wells more bless’d?
Must I but weep? No, I must toil!
Earth, render back from out thy breast
A remnant of thy odorous oil!
If not three-hundred, grant but three
Precious barrels a day to me.
What! silent still? and silent all?
Ah no! the rushing of the gas
Sounds like a distant torrent’s fall