Viii

Lord, no, man’s lot is not for bliss; To call it woe is blindness: It’ll here a kick, and it’s there a kiss, And here and there a kindness. He starts a hare and calls her joy; He runs her down to sorrow: The dogs within him bother the boy, But ’tis a new day to-morrow. So, I at helm, cries Roving Tim, And you at bow, old raven! The wind according to its whim Is in and out of haven.