Behold! in Liberty's unclouded blaze, We lift our heads, a race of other days.

I do not like the human race. I don't like their heads, I don't like their faces, I don't like their feet, I don't like their conversations, I don't like their hairdos, I don't like their automobiles.

And when these things begin to come to pass, then look up, and lift up your heads; for your redemption draweth nigh.

Through life's dark road his sordid way he wends, An incarnation of fat dividends.

Yes, social friend, I love thee well, In learned doctor's spite; Thy clouds all other clouds dispel, And lap me in delight.

Trade hardly deems the busy day begun, Till his keen eye along the sheet has run; The blooming daughter throws her needle by, And reads her schoolmate's marriage with a sigh; While the grave mother puts her glasses on, And gives a tear to some old crony gone.