George Gordon Noel Byron

Fools are my theme, let satire be my song.

Fools are my theme, let satire be my song.

There's music in the sighing of a reed;
There's music in the gushing of a rill;
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There's music in the sighing of a reed;
There's music in the gushing of a rill;
There's music in all things, if men had ears:
Their earth is but an echo of the spheres.

The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave,
The Moon, their Mistress, had expired before;
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The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave,
The Moon, their Mistress, had expired before;
The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air,
And the clouds perish'd; darkness had no need
Of aid from them--she was the Universe.

For what were all these country patriots born?
To hunt, and vote, and raise the price of corn?

For what were all these country patriots born?
To hunt, and vote, and raise the price of corn?

Yet, Freedom! yet thy banner, torn, but flying,
Streams like the thunder-storm against the wind.

Yet, Freedom! yet thy banner, torn, but flying,
Streams like the thunder-storm against the wind.