Here's to the red of it,
There's not a thread of it,
No, not a shred of read more

Here's to the red of it,
There's not a thread of it,
No, not a shred of it,
In all the spread of it,
From foot to head,
Not heroes bled for it,
Faced steel and lead for it,
Precious blood shed for it,
Bathing in red.

May all your labors be in vein.

May all your labors be in vein.

First pledge our Queen this solemn night,
Then drink to England, every guest;
That man's the best read more

First pledge our Queen this solemn night,
Then drink to England, every guest;
That man's the best Cosmopolite
Who knows his native country best.

A glass is good, and a lass is good,
And a pipe to smoke in cold weather;
read more

A glass is good, and a lass is good,
And a pipe to smoke in cold weather;
The world is good and the people are good,
And we're all good fellows together.

Here's to the town of New Haven,
The home of the truth and the light,
Where God read more

Here's to the town of New Haven,
The home of the truth and the light,
Where God speaks to Jones,
In the very same tones,
That he uses with Hadley and Dwight.

There's a health to poverty; it sticks by us when all friends
forsake us.

There's a health to poverty; it sticks by us when all friends
forsake us.

I fill this cup to one made up
Of loveliness alone,
A woman, of her gentle sex
read more

I fill this cup to one made up
Of loveliness alone,
A woman, of her gentle sex
The seeming paragon;
To whom the better elements
And kindly stars have given
A form so fair that, like the air,
'Tis less of earth than heaven.

May your glass be ever full
May the roof over your head be always strong,
And may read more

May your glass be ever full
May the roof over your head be always strong,
And may you be in heaven
Half an hour before the devil knows you're dead.

St. Leon raised his kindling eye,
And lifts the sparkling cup on high;
"I drink to one," read more

St. Leon raised his kindling eye,
And lifts the sparkling cup on high;
"I drink to one," he said,
"Whose image never may depart,
Deep graven on this grateful heart,
Till memory be dead."
. . . .
St. Leon paused, as if he would
Not breathe her name in careless mood
Thus lightly to another;
Then bent his noble head, as though
To give the word the reverence due,
And gently said, "My mother!"