William Cowper

Spring hangs her infant blossoms on the trees,
Rock'd in the cradle of the western breeze.

Spring hangs her infant blossoms on the trees,
Rock'd in the cradle of the western breeze.

'Twere better to be born a stone
Of ruder shape, and feeling none,
Than with a tenderness read more

'Twere better to be born a stone
Of ruder shape, and feeling none,
Than with a tenderness like mine
And sensibilities so fine!
Ah, hapless wretch! condemn'd to dwell
Forever in my native shell,
Ordained to move when others please,
Not for my own content or ease;
But toss'd and buffeted about,
Now in the water and now out.

Toil for the brave!
The brave that are no more.

Toil for the brave!
The brave that are no more.

Stamps God's own name upon a lie just made,
To turn a penny in the way of trade.

Stamps God's own name upon a lie just made,
To turn a penny in the way of trade.

I am monarch of all I survey,
My right there is none to dispute,
From the centre read more

I am monarch of all I survey,
My right there is none to dispute,
From the centre all round to the sea,
I am lord of the fowl and the brute.