Is it weakness of intellect, birdie? I cried, Or a rather tough worm in your little inside? With a shake of his poor little head he replied, Oh, Willow, titwillow, titwillow!
Lifes a pudding full of plums; Cares a canker that benumbs, Wherefore waste our elocution On impossible solution? Lifes a pleasant institution, Let us take it as it comes!
White sail upon the ocean verge, Just crimsoned by the setting sun, Thou hast thy port beyond the surge, Thy happy homeward course to run And winged hope, with heart of fire, To gain the bliss of thy desire.