Our Bog is dood, our Bog is dood, 
They lisped in accents mild, 
But when I asked them to explain 
They grew a little wild. 
How do you know your Bog is dood 
My darling little child? 
We know because we wish it so 
That is enough, they cried, 
And straight within each infant eye 
Stood up the flame of pride, 
And if you do not think it so 
You shall be crucified. 
Then tell me, darling little ones, 
What's dood, suppose Bog is? 
Just what we think, the answer came, 
Just what we think it is. 
They bowed their heads. Our Bog is ours 
And we are wholly his. 
But when they raised them up again 
They had forgotten me 
Each one upon each other glared 
In pride and misery 
For what was dood, and what their Bog 
They never could agree. 
Oh sweet it was to leave them then, 
And sweeter not to see, 
And sweetest of all to walk alone 
Beside the encroaching sea, 
The sea that soon should drown them all, 
That never yet drowned me.