The Toad Beneath The Harrow

For The Female Of The Species Is More Deadly Than The Male.

The White Moth To The Closing Vine, The Bee To The Open Clover, And The Gypsy Blood To The Gypsy Blood Ever The Wide World Over.

If You Can Walk With The Crowd And Keep Your Virtue, Or Walk With Kings-nor Lose The Common Touch; If Neither Foes Nor Loving Friends Can Hurt You; If All Men Count With You, But None Too Much; If You Can Fill The Unforgiving Minute With Sixty Seconds' Worth Of Distance Run, Yours Is The Earth And Everything That's In It, And - Which Is More - You'll Be A Man My Son!

If I Were Hanged On The Highest Hill, Mother O' Mine, O Mother O' Mine! I Know Whose Love Would Follow Me Still Mother O' Mine, O Mother O' Mine!

Your New-caught, Sullen Peoples, / Half-devil And Half Child.