In this great land of uncommon sages
Where iniquities have become rated
And hard labour, paid with meagre wages
While morals and truth are dead hated
...
The harmattan here is filled with rain
The night has come with radiant sun
And the dawn refuses, in fear of pain
And fowls at night do play with guns
...
Split the Lark—and you'll find the Music—
Bulb after Bulb, in Silver rolled—
Scantilly dealt to the Summer Morning
Saved for your Ear when Lutes be old.
