Mud thou art, to mould returnest,
Was not spoken as its dole.
With enjoyment and not sorrow
Welcome thee in loudest lay:
Ink to write, that each to-morrow
Finds it blacker than to-day.
Blots begone! Vile ink be fleeting!
Penman, be no more a slave!
Let all other inks go beating
Funeral marches to their grave!