Though some will contend that I’m found in the moon.
To year and to place I am never confined,
Yet I sport in the morning and flee from the noon.
In Europe or Asia I’ve never been found,
Nor can Africa boast me among all her wealth,
But I with the Pilgrims my toilsome way wound,
To find in America home for myself.
With martyrs I’ve braved the fierce torment and gloom,
With missionaries traversed the desert of sin;
The “M.D.’s” to me owe at least half their fame,