Like The Dew On The

Many Miles Away There's A Shadow On The Door Of A Cottage On The Shore Of A Dark Scottish Lake.

Honour Is A Homicide And A Bloodspiller, That Gangs About Making Frays In The Street; But Credit Is A Decent Honest Man, That Sits At Hame And Makes The Pat Play.

Sleep The Sleep That Knows Not Breaking, Morn Of Toil, Nor Night Of Waking.

High Minds, Of Native Pride And Force, Most Deeply Feel Thy Pangs, Remorse; Fear, For Their Scourge, Means Villains Have, Thou Art The Torturer Of The Brave!

In That Pleasant District Of Merry England Which Is Watered By The River Don, There Extended In Ancient Times A Large Forest, Covering The Greater Part Of The Beautiful Hills And Valleys Which Lie Between Sheffield And The Pleasant Town Of Doncaster.