Coming in solemn beauty like slow old tunes of Spain.
Poetry is a mixture of common sense, which not all have, with an uncommon sense, which very few have.
Oh some are fond of Spanish wine, and some are fond of French, And some'll swallow tay and stuff fit only for a wench; But I'm for right Jamaica till I roll beneath the bench, Says the old bold mate of Henry Morgan.
From '41 to '51 I was my folk's contrary son; I bit my father's hand right through And broke my mother's heart in two.
The luck will alter and the star will rise.