Volume 103 — THE WAIL OF A PESSIMIST POET.
Reading edition
O lift me out of this weary world, And put me on a tree, For life is all noughts And crosses, or thoughts That are busy for brawl and spree! For where is the man would strike the lyre, Or spurn with his foot the thief, Or melt all day, In a Midsummer way, At the sight of repentant grief? No! Lift me up to a leafy bough, Where my feet may play in the breeze, If my hot head there Still singe my hair, My heels may be ready to freeze!