En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Sonnet On Affixing A Tablet To The Memory Of Captain Cook And Sir Joseph Banks Against The Rock Of Their First Landing In Botany Bay

I have been musing what our Banks had said
And Cook, had they had second sight, that here
(Where fifty years ago the first they were
Of voyagers, whose feet did ever tread
These savage shores) — that here on this south head
Should stand an English farm-hut; and that there
On yon north shore, a barrack tow'r should peer;
Still more had they this simple Tablet read,
Erected by their own compatriots born,
Colonists here of a discordant state,
Yet big with virtues (though the flow'ry name
Which Science left it, has become a scorn
And hissing to the nations), if our Great
Be Wise and Good. So fairest Rome became!

poem by Barron Field
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The Land Of Love

Hail! voyagers, hail!
Whence e'er ye come, where'er ye rove,
No calmer strand,
No sweeter land,
Will e'er ye view, than the Land of Love!

Hail! voyagers, hail!
To these, our shores, soft gales invite:
The palm plumes wave,
The billows lave,
And hither point fix'd stars of light!

Hail! voyagers, hail!
Think not our groves wide brood with gloom;
In this, our isle,
Bright flowers smile:
Full urns, rose-heaped, these valleys bloom.

Hail! voyagers, hail!
Be not deceived; renounce vain things;
Ye may not find
A tranquil mind,
Though hence ye sail with swiftest wings.

Hail! voyagers, hail!
Time flies full fast; life soon is o'er;
And ye may mourn,
That hither borne,
Ye left behind our pleasant shore.

poem by Herman Melville
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Ace

By: jimmy buffett
1971
Hardly seems a long time
Just a minute of the day
But the man who stood beside me
More than gave himself away
The food stain on his spotted shirt
A gray beard on his face
A man composed of many names
So i just called him ace
Chorus:
But ace can't read and ace can't write
And he sleeps on a bench at night
A little man the world has left behind
He ain't bitter, he ain't sweet
Makes his living on the street
Never knowing what he's gonna find
Born in mississippi
Picking cotton as a child
Left soon for the city
Where he heard that life was wild
That was fifty years ago
When nothing's really strange
>from a poor dirt farm to dirty streets
Is really not much change
Chorus:
And ace can't read and ace can't write
And he sleeps on a bench at night
A little man the world has left behind
He ain't bitter, he ain't sweet
Makes his living on the street
Never knowing what he's gonna find
Go back to the country
No he really can't do that
Wasted years have left him
Nothing but an old straw hat
So he puts it on his head
And waves a last good-bye
No time left to turn around
And no time to ask why
Chorus:
Ace can't read and ace can't write
And he sleeps on a bench at night
A little man the world has left behind
He ain't bitter, he ain't sweet
Makes his living on the street
Never knowing what he's gonna find
And this old world has left poor ace behind

song performed by by Jimmy Buffett
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Epitaph On Miss Stanley, In Holyrood Church, Southampton

E. S.
Once a lively image of human nature,
Such as God made it
When he pronounced every work of his to be good.
To the memory of Elizabeth Stanley,
Daughter of George and Sarah Stanley;
Who to all the beauty, modesty,
And gentleness of nature,
That ever adorned the most amiable woman,
Joined all the fortitude, elevation,
And vigour of mind,
That ever exalted the most heroical man;
Who having lived the pride and delight of her parents,
The joy, the consolation, and pattern of her friends,
A mistress not only of the English and French,
But in a high degree of the Greek and Roman learning,
Without vanity or pedantry,
At the age of eighteen,
After a tedious, painful, desperate illness,
Which, with a Roman spirit,
And a Christian resignation,
She endured so calmly, that she seemed insensible
To all pain and suffering, except that of her friends,
Gave up her innocent soul to her Creator,
And left to her mother, who erected this monument,
The memory of her virtues for her greatest support;
Virtues which, in her sex and station of life,
Were all that could be practised,
And more than will be believed,
Except by those who know what this inscription relates.

Here, Stanley, rest! escaped this mortal strife,
Above the joys, beyond the woes of life,
Fierce pangs no more thy lively beauties stain,
And sternly try thee with a year of pain;
No more sweet patience, feigning oft relief,
With tender art to save her anxious groan,
No more thy bosom presses down its own;
Now well-earned peace is thine, and bliss sincere:
Ours be the lenient, not unpleasing tear!
O born to bloom, then sink beneath the storm;
To show us virtue in her fairest form;
To show us artless reason's moral reign,
What boastful science arrogates in vain;
The obedient passions knowing each their part;
Calm light the head, and harmony the heart!
Yes, we must follow soon, will glad obey;
When a few suns have rolled their cares away,
Tired with vain life, will close the willing eye:
'Tis the great birthright of mankind to die.
Blessed be the bark that wafts us to the shore,
Where death-divided friends shall part no more:
To join thee there, here with thy dust repose,
Is all the hope thy hapless mother knows.

poem by James Thomson
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Consolation

How agreeable it is not to be touring Italy this summer,
wandering her cities and ascending her torrid hilltowns.
How much better to cruise these local, familiar streets,
fully grasping the meaning of every roadsign and billboard
and all the sudden hand gestures of my compatriots.

There are no abbeys here, no crumbling frescoes or famous
domes and there is no need to memorize a succession
of kings or tour the dripping corners of a dungeon.
No need to stand around a sarcophagus, see Napoleon's
little bed on Elba, or view the bones of a saint under glass.

How much better to command the simple precinct of home
than be dwarfed by pillar, arch, and basilica.
Why hide my head in phrase books and wrinkled maps?
Why feed scenery into a hungry, one-eyes camera
eager to eat the world one monument at a time?

Instead of slouching in a café ignorant of the word for ice,
I will head down to the coffee shop and the waitress
known as Dot. I will slide into the flow of the morning
paper, all language barriers down,
rivers of idiom running freely, eggs over easy on the way.

And after breakfast, I will not have to find someone
willing to photograph me with my arm around the owner.
I will not puzzle over the bill or record in a journal
what I had to eat and how the sun came in the window.
It is enough to climb back into the car

as if it were the great car of English itself
and sounding my loud vernacular horn, speed off
down a road that will never lead to Rome, not even Bologna.

poem by Billy Collins
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Consolation

How agreeable it is not to be touring Italy this summer,
wandering her cities and ascending her torrid hilltowns.
How much better to cruise these local, familiar streets,
fully grasping the meaning of every roadsign and billboard
and all the sudden hand gestures of my compatriots.

There are no abbeys here, no crumbling frescoes or famous
domes and there is no need to memorize a succession
of kings or tour the dripping corners of a dungeon.
No need to stand around a sarcophagus, see Napoleon's
little bed on Elba, or view the bones of a saint under glass.

How much better to command the simple precinct of home
than be dwarfed by pillar, arch, and basilica.
Why hide my head in phrase books and wrinkled maps?
Why feed scenery into a hungry, one-eyes camera
eager to eat the world one monument at a time?

Instead of slouching in a café ignorant of the word for ice,
I will head down to the coffee shop and the waitress
known as Dot. I will slide into the flow of the morning
paper, all language barriers down,
rivers of idiom running freely, eggs over easy on the way.

And after breakfast, I will not have to find someone
willing to photograph me with my arm around the owner.
I will not puzzle over the bill or record in a journal
what I had to eat and how the sun came in the window.
It is enough to climb back into the car

as if it were the great car of English itself
and sounding my loud vernacular horn, speed off
down a road that will never lead to Rome, not even Bologna.

poem by William Taylor Collins
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1887

From Clee to heaven the beacon burns,
The shires have seen it plain,
From north and south the sign returns
And beacons burn again.

Look left, look right, the hills are bright,
The dales are light between,
Because 'tis fifty years to-night
That God has saved the Queen.

Now, when the flame they watch not towers
About the soil they trod,
Lads, we'll remember friends of ours
Who shared the work with God.

To skies that knit their heartstrings right,
To fields that bred them brave,
The saviours come not home to-night:
Themselves they could not save.

It dawns in Asia, tombstones show
And Shropshire names are read;
And the Nile spills his overflow
Beside the Severn's dead.

We pledge in peace by farm and town
The Queen they served in war,
And fire the beacons up and down
The land they perished for.

"God save the Queen" we living sing,
From height to height 'tis heard;
And with the rest your voices ring,
Lads of the Fifty-third.

Oh, God will save her, fear you not:
Be you the men you've been,
Get you the sons your fathers got,
And God will save the Queen.

poem by Alfred Edward Housman
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Roman Girl's Song

Rome, Rome! thou art no more
As thou hast been!
On thy seven hills of yore
Thou satst a queen.

Thou hadst thy triumphs then
Purpling the street,
Leaders and sceptred men
Bow'd at thy feet.

They that thy mantle wore,
As gods were seen–
Rome, Rome! thou art no more
As thou hast been!

Rome! thine imperial brow
Never shall rise:
What hast thou left thee now?
Thou hast thy skies!

Blue, deeply blue, they are,
Gloriously bright!
Veiling thy wastes afar
With colour'd light.

Thou hast the sunset's glow,
Rome, for thy dower,
Flushing tall cypress-bough,
Temple and tower!

And all sweet sounds are thine,
Lovely to hear,
While night, o'er tomb and shrine,
Rests darkly clear.

Many a solemn hymn,
By starlight sung,
Sweeps thro' the arches dim,
Thy wrecks among.

Many a flute's low swell,
On thy soft air
Lingers, and loves to dwell
With summer there.

Thou hast the South's rich gift
Of sudden song,
A charmed fountain, swift,
Joyous, and strong.

Thou hast fair forms that move
With queenly tread;
Thou hast proud fanes above
Thy mighty dead.

Yet wears thy Tiber's shore
A mournful mien:
Rome, Rome! thou art no more
As thou hast been!

poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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Lines on Stratford

Our Canadian County Perth
Commemorates great bard of earth ;
Stratford and Avon both are here,
And they enshrine the name Shakespeare.

For here in Stratford every ward
Is named from drama of great bard.
Here you may roam o'er Romeo
Or glance on Juliet bestow.

The valley of the Thames we presume includes Stratford
on the north and Woodstock and Ingersoll on the south.
The Avon, on whose banks Stratford is located, joins the
Thames near St.Mary's. The middle branch flows through
Embro and Thamesford, the south and middle branches
unite and flow through Dorchester and Westminster and
blend with the northern branch at London, where it deviates
to Elgin in the south.

poem by James McIntyre
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I Was Born Close To Nature

By my old home far north of here the babbling rill did flow
I was born close to Nature but of Nature little i do know
On the hedgerows of the old fields the birds welcomed the Spring
One can only look on Nature as a most amazing thing
The dark moorhen chicks from the reed bed to the river pool swim out
But their mum she calls to tell them if she sense danger about
And back into the reed bed they swim and from sight disappear
Though yet their little cheepings the passer by can hear
I was born close to Nature going back six decades ago
Near the rill from the high ground that to the river flow
Through Claraghatlea towards Liscreagh from the fields of Claramore
Far north of here as the crow fly from this far southern shore
And my wonderment of Nature it only seems to grow
And the more i learn about her the less of her i know i know.

poem by Francis Duggan
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The Mountain Laboured

A patriot spake thus to an eager throng:
'Give me the power and I shall right each wrong.
And Fortune, smiling, on our land shall look'
His name was COOK.

Lo, I beheld, throughout a continent,
A nation wrestle with affairs of State,
And patriotic cries, wher'er I went,
Poured forth alike from groundlings and the great.
I heard man reason with his fellow man;
From shore to shore rang out one mighty screech,
As, daily, from a thousand platforms ran
Rivers of speech.

Consul and Senator keen combat waged.
Doctor and Saint joined hotly in the fray;
North, South and West and East the battle raged;
And ev'ry citizen had much to say;
Bland politicians talked incessantly
It seemed a very battle of the gods;
Though much they said appeared to me to be
Over the odds.

Then lo, upon the great Election Day,
The day appointed for the mighty test,
Cab, jinker, motor-car and humble dray
Hither and thither sped at the behest
Of rival statesmen whose bold streamers flared
On wall and hoarding....You can guess the rest
'Twere easy spared.

My wife remained at home to mend my socks;
But forth went I to claim my sovereign right,
To win my freedom at the ballot-box....
I got back home at twelve o'clock that night.
Or was it two next morning? I forget.
But I had done my duty like a man:
Helped in the noblest scheme man's fashioned yet
The Party Plan.

And then a solemn hush fell on the land
(I was content, considering my head,
Next Morning). And behold, on ev'ry hand,
Expectancy and hope one plainly read,
Till through the land rang out the herald's voice
Telling the upshot of that mighty fray:
'Joseph is consul! Citizens, rejoice!
'Ip, 'ip, 'ooray!'

Rejoice I did; and my prophetic soul
Saw for my country happiness and peace.
For he had reached at last the longed-for goal.
Now would our corn and oil and beer increase!
What would it profit else, this strike, this pain
A mighty Nation shaken to its soul?
Sans good result, all hope ('twas very plain)
Was up the pole.

Into the Hall of State I blithely went,
Eager to hear the dignified debate
Grave, reverend seigneurs in grave argument
Engaged, discussing great affairs of State,
Wise counsellors....But stay! What's here amiss?
Are these the honoured makers of the Law?
Now Heav'n defend our Party Plan! for this
Is what I saw:

A yelping, clamorous, unruly clan;
A small bald, agitated, snapping man;
And, as they raved, his fist he fiercely shook
His name was COOK.

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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You, the Spirit of the Settlement ... Not understand that America is God's crucible, the great melting-pot where all the races of Europe are melting and re-forming Here, you stand, good folk, think I, when I see them at Ellis Island, here you stand in your fifty groups, with your fifty languages and histories, and your fifty blood hatreds and rivalries...

quote by Israel Zangwill
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Josephus Riley

The rum was rich and rare,
There were wagers in the air,
The atmosphere was rosy, and the tongues were
wagging free;
But one was in the revel
Whose occiput was level -
Plain Josephus Riley, from the North Countree.

The conversation's flow
Was not devoid of “blow,”
And neither was it wanting in the plain, colloquial “D.”
With a most ingenuous smile -
'This here is not my style,'
Said plain Josephus Riley, from the North Countree.

'And I wouldn't be averse
To emptying my purse,
And laying some small wager with the present
companee,
To cut the matter short -
Foot racing is my forte,'
Said plain Josephus Riley, from the North Countree.

“I think it's on the cards
That I can run three hundred yards
(The match to be decided where you gentlemen
agree)
Against your fleetest horse;
The race would prove a source
Of pleasure,' said Josephus, from the North Countree.

'To equalise the task,
This little start I ask -
The rider, ere he follows, must imbibe a cup of tea;
A simple breakfast-cup
He will have to swallow up.
That's me - Josephus Riley, from the North
Countree.'

Then a “knowing 'un” looked wise,
“Begged to apologise;
But might he ask what temp'rature the liquid was
to be!
Would it come from out the pot
Milkless, steaming, boiling-hot?”
'Oh, not at all,' said Riley, from the North
Countree.

'Allow me to explain;
I do observe with pain,
This jocular reflection on my native honestee,
My bump of truth is huge,
I'd scorn a subterfuge' -
Said plain Josephus Riley, from the North Countree.

“Before the parties start
I'll take the Judge apart
To prove, by tasting, whether I have tampered with
the tea;
And I beg to state again
Your suspicions give me pain,'
Said plain Josephus Riley, from the North Countree.

Then they were all satisfied
That the match was 'boneefied,'
The bond was signed, and Riley went to 'preparate”
the tea;
But his slow, ambiguous smile
Would have seemed to token guile
In any man but Riley, from the North Countree.

He brought the fatal cup -
By its saucer covered up -
The Judge examined its contents with awful gravitee,
Then read the papers o'er,
But could not find a flaw:
'Wade in! Josephus Riley, from the North Countree.'

Then the “wagerer” just bowed,
And, passing through the crowd,
He handed up the beverage unto the “wageree;”
And off across the flat,
Springing gaily, pit-a-pat,
Went plain Josephus Riley, from the North Countree.

But behind him what a yell
Of execration fell
From lips that lent themselves to shapes of great
profanitee!
For the people of that town
Were done a lovely brown
By plain Josephus Riley, from the North Countree.

And here's the reason why:
The tea was simply DRY,
You might eat it, but to drink it was impossibilitee;
But, curious to state,
Men did not appreciate
This hum'rous innovation from the North Countree.

You'll understand, of course,
That wager was a source
Of very little profit to the hapless “wageree,”
And, dating from that day,
I much regret to say,
Men look askance at Riley, from the North Countree.

poem by Barcroft Henry Thomas Boake
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A Christmas Carmen

I.
Sound over all waters, reach out from all lands,
The chorus of voices, the clasping of hands;
Sing hymns that were sung by the stars of the morn,
Sing songs of the angels when Jesus was born!
With glad jubilations
Bring hope to the nations!
The dark night is ending and dawn has begun:
Rise, hope of the ages, arise like the sun,
All speech flow to music, all hearts beat as one!

II.
Sing the bridal of nations! with chorals of love
Sing out the war-vulture and sing in the dove,
Till the hearts of the peoples keep time in accord,
And the voice of the world is the voice of the Lord!
Clasp hands of the nations
In strong gratulations:
The dark night is ending and dawn has begun;
Rise, hope of the ages, arise like the sun,
All speech flow to music, all hearts beat as one!

III.
Blow, bugles of battle, the marches of peace;
East, west, north, and south let the long quarrel cease
Sing the song of great joy that the angels began,
Sing of glory to God and of good-will to man!
Hark! joining in chorus
The heavens bend o’er us!
The dark night is ending and dawn has begun;
Rise, hope of the ages, arise like the sun,
All speech flow to music, all hearts beat as one!

poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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King Solomon and the Ants

Out from Jerusalem
The king rode with his great
War chiefs and lords of state,
And Sheba's queen with them;

Comely, but black withal,
To whom, perchance, belongs
That wondrous Song of songs,
Sensuous and mystical,

Whereto devout souls turn
In fond, ecstatic dream,
And through its earth-born theme
The Love of loves discern.

Proud in the Syrian sun,
In gold and purple sheen,
The dusky Ethiop queen
Smiled on King Solomon.

Wisest of men, he knew
The languages of all
The creatures great or small
That trod the earth or flew.

Across an ant-hill led
The king's path, and he heard
Its small folk, and their word
He thus interpreted:

'Here comes the king men greet
As wise and good and just,
To crush us in the dust
Under his heedless feet.'

The great king bowed his head,
And saw the wide surprise
Of the Queen of Sheba's eyes
As he told her what they said.

'O king!' she whispered sweet,
'Too happy fate have they
Who perish in thy way
Beneath thy gracious feet!

'Thou of the God-lent crown,
Shall these vile creatures dare
Murmur against thee where
The knees of kings kneel down?'

'Nay,' Solomon replied,
'The wise and strong should seek
The welfare of the weak,'
And turned his horse aside.

His train, with quick alarm,
Curved with their leader round
The ant-hill's peopled mound,
And left it free from harm.

The jewelled head bent low;
'O king!' she said, 'henceforth
The secret of thy worth
And wisdom well I know.

'Happy must be the State
Whose ruler heedeth more
The murmurs of the poor
Than flatteries of the great.'

poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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Foreign Missions in Battle Array

An endless line of splendor,
These troops with heaven for home,
With creeds they go from Scotland,
With incense go from Rome.
These, in the name of Jesus,
Against the dark gods stand,
They gird the earth with valor,
They heed their King's command.

Onward the line advances,
Shaking the hills with power,
Slaying the hidden demons,
The lions that devour.
No bloodshed in the wrestling, —
But souls new-born arise —
The nations growing kinder,
The child-hearts growing wise.

What is the final ending?
The issue, can we know?
Will Christ outlive Mohammed?
Will Kali's altar go?
This is our faith tremendous, —
Our wild hope, who shall scorn, —
That in the name of Jesus
The world shall be reborn!

poem by Vachel Lindsay
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Old Black Kettle

Well I remember when I was just little
Mama used to cook on an old black kettle
On an old wood stove shed had since she was wed
Well the oven door was sprung a little bit
So we propped it up with a forked stick
But that didnt matter cause mama kept us fed
My mama and daddy must have loved each other
Cause I had eleven sisters and brothers
And the girls worked just as hard as the boys did
There was corn to hoe then wed go hoe it
We might have been poor but we didnt know it
Wed heard that word but we didnt know what it meant
Oh we used to have such a good life
And the days that I knew then are the happiest Ive known
And oh didnt we have such a good time
Its sad to think the old black kettles gone
Well there was nothing that pleased us any better
Than when we got an occasional letter
From kin folks livin up north in some big town
Wed think of all the games wed play
And we just couldnt hardly wait
When our city cousins said theyze a comin down
Now mamas done away with the old black kettle
She used to cook in when I was just little
And the door aint sprung on her electric range
That little farm and home we had
It aint there no more and thats too bad
Folks are doin away with the simple things
And oh we used to have such a good life
And the days that I knew then are the happiest Ive known
And oh didnt we have such a good time
Its sad to think the old black kettles gone
Now, I just mean to say the simple things are gone
The old black kettles gone

song performed by by Dolly Parton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Illogicality...

i'd like to make it simple

complicating it does not help
our situation

i do not have four feet
i don't know if becoming a fish can make me see thing clearer

but can clarity really help?

i guess with fifty-one years here
we are mislead by the
something that is clear

actually, it makes us more confused
unable to relate to something more real and
recurrent

i change, it is complicated,
i don't like it here, it is as simple as that

i get nothing here except
boredom,
all my wishes turn to stone

stone hits my head so bad
i need to go and look for a cure.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Song of the Torres Strait Islands

Bold Torres, the sailor, came and went,
with his swarthy, storm-worn band,
he saw Saavedra's Isle to north-
to south a loom of land.
He left unknowing his name would live
through ages with big fate,
as the first to stem with broad-bowed ship
the wash of the Northern Strait.

Round the western coast the Dutch ships crept,
seeking the hidden way;
some left their bones on that bare, west coast,
and the others sailed away.
Turned back, turned back, by reef and shoal,
twin guards of the narrow gate-
the path of the sun from the eastern seas-
they were mocked by the Northern Strait.

Year in, year out, the monsoons swept
o'er the isles of the coral shore,
The savage tossed in his frail canoe,
but the white man came no more.
No sail in sight at the flash of dawn!
No sail at the gloaming late!
Silent and still was the lonley pass-
Unsought was the Northern Strait.

A rattle of arms and a roll of drums,
and the meteor flag flies free,
as an English voice proclaims King George
Lord of the tropic sea.
The parrots scream as the volleys flash;
the gulls their haunts vacate;
and the 'south-east' fills the 'Endeavours' sails
as she heads through the Northern Strait.

And ever since then has our watch been kept
o'er the ships in the narrow way,
where the smoking funnels flare by night,
and the house-flags flaunt by day.
Ever the same strong south-east blows,
and ever we watch and wait,
the wardens we, in Australia's name,
the guard of the Northern Strait.

poem by Ernest Favenc
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The Farm

There┬┤s a cockroach in my coffee
There┬┤s a needle in my arm
And I feel like New York City
Get me to the farm

Get me to the farm
Get me to the farm
Somebody get me to the farm

I got terminal uniqueness
I'm an egocentric man
I get caught up in my freakness
But I ain┬┤t no Peter Pan
Get me to the farm

Get me to the farm
Get me to the farm
Get me...

Buckle up straight Jack
Sanity is such a drag
Jellybeam thorazene
Trancendental jet lag

Sanity I ain┬┤t gotta
Feeling like a pinala
Sucker punch-blowin┬┤lung
Motherload-pigeonholed
I'm feeling like I'm gonna explode

I wanna be a Hare Krishna
Tattoo a dot right on my head
And the prozac is my fixer
I am the living dead

Take me to the farm
Take me to the farm
Somebody take me to the farm
Somebody take me to the farm

Take me to the farm
Take me to the farm
Somebody take me to the farm
Somebody take me to the farm

Take me to the farm
Take me to the farm
Take me to the farm...

Take me to the farm
Take me to the farm
Somebody take me to the farm

song performed by by Aerosmith
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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North And South Of The River

I want to reach out over the Loch
And feel your hand across the water
Walk with you along an unapproved road
Not looking over my shoulder
I want to see, and I want to hear
To understand your fears
But we're north and south of the river
I've been doing it wrong all of my life
This holy town has turned me over
A young man running from what he didn't understand
The wind from the Loch just get colder, colder
There was a badness that had its way
But love wasn't lost, love will have its day
North and south of the river
North and south of the river
Can we stop playing these old tattoos
Darling I don't have the answer
I want to meet you where you are
I don't need you to surrender
'Cause there's no feeling that's so alone
As when the one you're hurting is your own
North and south of the river
North and south of the river
North and south of the river
Some high ground is not worth taking
Some connections are not worth making
There's an old church bell no longer ringing
Some old songs are not worth bringing
North...
(Higher ground is not worth taking)
North and south of the river

song performed by by U2
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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