Thomas Moore

Every season hath its pleasure;
Spring may boast her flowery prime,
Yet the vineyard's ruby treasuries
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Every season hath its pleasure;
Spring may boast her flowery prime,
Yet the vineyard's ruby treasuries
Brighten Autumn's sob'rer time.

Yet, who can help loving the land that has taught us
Six hundred and eighty-five ways to dress eggs?

Yet, who can help loving the land that has taught us
Six hundred and eighty-five ways to dress eggs?

Though an angel should write, still 'tis devils must print.

Though an angel should write, still 'tis devils must print.

It seem'd as if each thought and look
And motion were that minute chain'd
Fast to the read more

It seem'd as if each thought and look
And motion were that minute chain'd
Fast to the spot such root she took,
And--like a sunflower by a brook,
With face upturn'd--so still remain'd!

There written all
Black as the damning drops that fall
From the denouncing Angel's pen,
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There written all
Black as the damning drops that fall
From the denouncing Angel's pen,
Ere Mercy weeps them out again.