Then some one said, "We shall come here no more!"
And all at once they cried, "No more, indeed!
The ballot shall release; we will no longer lead!"
CHORIC SONG.
Why are we weighed upon with weariness,
With foreign crises and with home distress,
When all we do is mocked at by the Press?
All men like peace: why should we toil alone?
We always toil, and nevermore have rest;
But yield perpetual jest,