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 | A thousand more verses |  |
August, August, stormy or fair,
What have you more that is sweet and rare?—
Millions of babies: born to bless
This great land in its comeliness,
Or by Indolence' wiles or worse,
Making their coming into a curse.
Will their staying be ill, or well?—
God and the world will some time tell.
What have you more that is sweet and rare?—
Millions of babies: born to bless
This great land in its comeliness,
47
Making their coming into a curse.
Will their staying be ill, or well?—
God and the world will some time tell.
| A thousand more verses | |