AH! you do seem to think the ground,

Where happiness is best a-vound,

Is where the high-peäl'd park do reach -fenced

Wi’ elem-rows, or clumps o’ beech;

Or where the coach do stand avore

The twelve-tunn'd house's lofty door, chimneyed

Or men can ride behin’ their hounds

Vor miles athirt their own wide grounds, across

An’ seldom wi’ the lowly;

Upon the green that we do tread,

Below the welsh-nut's wide-limb'd head, walnut's

Or grass where apple trees do spread?

No, so's; no, no: not high nor low: souls (friends)

'Tis where the heart is holy.

'Tis true its veet mid tread the vloor, may

'Ithin the marble-pillar'd door,

Where day do cast, in high-ruf'd halls, -roofed

His light drough lofty window'd walls; through

An’ wax-white han's do never tire

Wi’ strokes ov heavy work vor hire,

An’ all that money can avword

Do lwoad the zilver-brighten'd bwoard; table

Or mid be wi’ the lowly,

Where turf's a-smwolderèn avore

The back, to warm the stwonèn vloor, stone

An’ love's at hwome 'ithin the door?

No, so's; no, no; not high nor low:

'Tis where the heart is holy.

An’ ceäre can come 'ithin a ring

O’ sworded guards, to smite a king,

Though he mid hold 'ithin his hands

The zwarmèn vo'k o’ many lands; swarming folk

Or goo in drough the iron-geäte through

Avore the house o’ lofty steäte;

Or reach the miser that do smile

A-buildèn up his goolden pile;

Or else mid smite the lowly, may

That have noo pow'r to loose or bind

Another's body, or his mind,

But only hands to help mankind.

If there is rest 'ithin the breast,

'Tis where the heart is holy.