...if Fifty Bands Of Men Surrounded Us/

Rather I'd Choose Laboriously To Bear A Weight Of Woes, And Breathe The Vital Air, A Slave To Some Poor Hind That Toils For Bread, Than Reign The Sceptred Monarch Of The Dead.

Hunger Is Insolent, And Will Be Fed.

For Never, Never, Wicked Man Was Wise.

And Woe Succeeds Woe.

I Long For Home, Long For The Sight Of Home.