The Drinking Man Is Never

As Down In The Sunless Retreats Of The Ocean Sweet Flowers Are Springing No Mortal Can See, So Deep In My Soul The Still Prayer Of Devotion, Unheard By The World, Rises Silent To Thee. As Still To The Star Of Its Worship, Though Clouded, The Needle Points Faithfully O'er The Dim Sea, So Dark When I Roam In This Wintry World Shrouded, The Hope Of My Spirit Turns Trembling To Thee.

Clap An Extinguisher Upon Your Irony If You Are Unhappily Blessed With A Vein Of It.

The Man Must Have A Rare Recipe For Melancholy, Who Can Be Dull In Fleet Street.

As Half In Shade And Half In Sun This World Along Its Path Advances, May That Side The Sun 's Upon Be All That E'er Shall Meet Thy Glances!

Shut Not Thy Purse-strings Always Against Painted Distress.