For Auld Lang Syne, my dear,
For Auld Lang Syne;
We’ll take a cup of kindness yet,
For Auld Lang Syne.
We twa ha’e run about the braes,
And pu’d the gowans fine;
But we’ve wander’d mony a weary foot,
Sin Auld Lang Syne.
For Auld Lang Syne, &c.
We twa ha’e paid let i’ the burn,
Frae morning sun till dine;
But seas between us braid ha’e roar’d,
Sin Auld Lang Syne.
For Auld Lang Syne, &c.
And there’s a hand my trusty feire,
An’ gi’es a hand o’ thine;
An’ we’ll take a right gude willie waught,
For Auld Lang Syne.
For Auld Lang Syne, &c.
And surely you’ll be your pint stoup,
And surely I’ll be mine;
And we’ll tak’ a cup o’ kindness yet,
For Auld Lang Syne.
For Auld Lang Syne, &c.
Norah M’Shane.
I’ve left Ballymornach a long way behind me,
To better my fortune I’ve cross’d the big sea;
But I’m sadly alone, not a creature to mind me,
And faith I’m as wretch’d as wretch’d can be;
I think of the buttermilk, fresh as the daisy,
The beautiful halls and the emerald plain,
And, ah! don’t I oftentimes think myself crazy
About that black-eyed rogue, Norah M’Shane.
I sigh for the turf-pile so cheerfully burning,
When barefoot I trudged it from toiling afar,
When I toss’d in the light the thirteen I’d been earning,
And whistled the tune of “Erin go Bragh.”
In truth, I believe that I’m half broken-heart’d,
To my country and love I must get back again
For I’ve never been happy at all since I part’d
From sweet Ballymornach and Norah M’Shane.
Oh! there’s something so dear in the cot I was born in,
Tho’ the walls are but mud and the roof is but thatch;
How familiar the grunt of the pigs in the morning,--
What music in lifting the rusty old latch!
’Tis true I’d no money, but then I’d no sorrow,
My pockets were light, but my head had no pain;
And if I but live till the sun shines to-morrow,
I’ll be off to dear Erin and Norah M’Shane.
Angel’s Whisper.
A baby was sleeping,
Its mother was weeping,
For her husband was far o’er the wide raging sea,
And the tempest was swelling,
Round the fisherman’s dwelling,
And she cried, “Dermot, darling, oh, come back to me!”
Her beads while she number’d,
The baby still slumber’d,
And smiled in her face as she bend’d her knee;
“Oh! bless’d be that warning,
My child thy sleep adorning,
For I know that the angels are whispering to thee.
“And while they are keeping
Bright watch o’er thy sleeping,
Oh, pray to them safely, my babe with me;
And say thou would’st rather
They’d watch o’er thy father,
For I know that the angels are whispering to thee.”
The dawn of the morning
Saw Dermot returning,
And the wife wept with joy the babe’s father to see,
And closely caressing
The child, with a blessing,
Said, “I knew that the angels were whispering to thee.”
A Yankee Ship, and a Yankee Crew.
A Yankee ship, and a Yankee crew,
Tally hi ho! you know!
O’er the bright blue waves like a sea-bird flew,
Singing hey! aloft and alow!
Her sails are spread to the fairy breeze!
The spray as sparkling thrown from her prow,
Her flag is the proudest that floats on the seas,
When homeward she’s steering now!
A Yankee ship, and a Yankee crew,
Tally hi ho! you know!
With hearts aboard, both gallant and true,
The same aloft and alow,
The blackening sky, and the whistling wind,
Foretell the approach of a gale,
And a home and its joys flits over each mind;
Husbands, lovers, on deck there! a sail!
A Yankee ship, and a Yankee crew,
Tally hi ho! you know!
Distress is the word, God speed them through,
Bear a hand aloft and alow!
A Yankee ship, and a Yankee crew,
Tally hi ho! you know!
Freedom defends the land where it grew,
We’re free aloft and alow!
Bearing down on a ship, in regal pride,
Defiance floating at each mast-head;
She’s wreck’d, and the one that floats alongside,
The stars and stripes that’s to victory wed.
A Yankee ship, and a Yankee crew,
Tally hi ho! you know!
Ne’er strikes to a foe while the sky is blue,
Or a tar aloft and alow!
The Last Rose of Summer.
’Tis the last rose of summer,
Left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone:
No flower of her kindred,
No rose-bud is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes,
Or give sigh for sigh.
I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one,
To pine on the stem;
Since the lovely are sleeping,
Go sleep thou with them;
Thus kindly I scatter
Thy leaves o’er the bed,
Where thy mates of the garden
Lie scentless and dead.
So soon may I follow,
When friendships decay,
And from love’s shining circle
The gems drop away;
When true hearts lie wither’d,
And fond ones are flown,
Oh! who would inhabit
This bleak world alone?
Something to Love Me.
Something to love me, something to bless,
Something to smile upon and to caress;
Something to fill up the void in my heart,
That will not, when sorrow comes o’er me, depart.
Something that loves not as summer friends love,
As true as the star in the blue realms above;
Something with instinct enough to believe,
That will not, like most of earth’s proud ones deceive.
Something to love me, something to bless,
Something to smile upon and to caress;
Something to fill up the void in my heart,
That will not, when sorrow comes o’er me, depart.
Something to love me, something to pet,
Something that kindness can never forget;
Something that clings to me, even a bird,
In whose sweet music reproach is not heard.
Something to cheer me, and stay by my side,
That never will leave me, whate’er may betide,
That I may still in this hollow world find,
There’s something still left to be loving and kind.
Something to love me, something to bless,
Something to smile upon and to caress;
Something to fill up the void in my heart,
That will not when sorrow comes o’er me, depart.
Sammy Slap, the Bill-Sticker.
I’m Sammy Slap, the bill-sticker, and you must all agree, sirs,
I sticks to business like a trump, and business sticks to me, sirs;
The low folks call me plasterer, but they deserve a banging,
Because, genteelly speaking, why my trade is paper-hanging,
CHORUS.--With my paste, paste, paste,
Oh, all the world is puffing,
So I paste, paste, paste.
All ’round about the city now, when anything’s the go, sirs,
You’ll always find me at my post, a sticking up the posters;
I’ve hung Ned Forrest twelve feet high, and did it, sirs, quite
easy;
And I’ve been engaged, too, lately, both by Mario and Grisi.
CHORUS.--With my paste, &c.
I’m not like some in our trade, they deserve their jackets laced,
sirs,
They stick up half their bosses bills, and sells the rest for
_waste_, sirs;
Now honesty’s best policy, with a good name to retire with,
So what I doesn’t use myself--my old girl lights the fire with.
CHORUS.--With my paste, &c.
Sometimes I’m jobbing for the church with charitable sermons,
And sometimes for the theatres, the English and the Germans;
To me, of course, no odds it is, so long as I’m a winner--
Whether I sticks up for a saint, or hangs up for a sinner.
CHORUS.--With my paste, &c.
There’s Jenny Lind, I’m proud to say--sweet music’s great adorner,
I’ve had the honor of posting her in every hole and corner;
Alboni, too, so nice and plump, I’ve stuck her up that’s certain--
And I’ve plastered Mrs. Mowatt, right on top of Billy Burton.
CHORUS.--With my paste, &c.
Well now before I say good-bye, permit me to remind ye,
That round about the city here, you’re always sure to find me;
And if ever you shall have a job--to show how I deserve ye,
About the town, through thick and thin, I’ll brush along to serve ye.
CHORUS.--With my paste, &c.
Roll on Silver Moon.
As I strayed from my cot at the close of the day,
About the beginning of June,
’Neath a jessamine shade I espied a fair maid,
And she sadly complain’d to the moon.
Roll on silver moon, guide the traveler’s way,
When the nightingale’s song is in tune,
But never, never more with my lover I’ll stray,
By thy sweet silver light, bonny moon.
Roll on, &c.
As the hart on the mountain my lover was brave,
So handsome, so manly, and clever;
So kind and sincere, and he loved me so dear,
Oh, Edwin, thy equal was never.
But now he is dead, and gone to death’s bed,
He’s cut down like a rose in full bloom;
He’s fallen asleep, and poor Jane’s left to weep,
By the sweet silver light of the moon.
Roll on, &c.
But his grave I’ll seek out until morning appears,
And weep for my lover so brave,
I’ll embrace the cold turf and wash with my tears
The flowers that bloom o’er his grave;
But never again shall my bosom know joy
With my Edwin I hope to be soon;
Lovers shall weep o’er the grave where we sleep,
By thy sweet silver light, bonny moon.
Mary of Argyle.
I have heard the mavis singing,
His love-song to the morn,
I have seen the dew-drops clinging,
To the rose just newly born;
But a sweeter song has cheered me,
At the evening’s gentle close,
I have seen an eye still brighter,
Than the dew-drops on the rose--
’Twas thy voice, my gentle Mary,
And thine artless, winning smile,
That made this world an Eden,
Bonny Mary of Argyle.
Though thy voice may lose its sweetness,
And thine eye its brightness too,
Though thy step may lose its fleetness,
And thy hair its sunny hue,
Still to me shalt thou be dearer,
Than all the world can own.
I have loved thee for thy beauty,
But not for that alone,--
I have watched thy heart, dear Mary,
And its goodness was the wile,
That has made thee mine forever,
Bonny Mary of Argyle.
Oft in the Stilly Night.
Oft in the stilly night,
Ere slumber’s chain has bound me,
Fond mem’ry brings the light
Of other days around me;
The smiles, the tears of childhood’s years,
The words of love then spoken,
The eyes that shone, now dimm’d and gone,
The cheerful hearts now broken!
Thus in the stilly night, &c.
When I remember all
The friends so link’d together,
I’ve seen around me fall,
Like leaves in winter weather,
I feel like one, who treads alone
Some banquet hall deserted,
Whose lights are fled, whose garland’s dead,
And all but he departed.
Thus in the stilly night, &c.
’Tis Midnight Hour.
’Tis midnight hour, the moon shines bright.
The dew-drops play beneath her ray;
The twinkling stars their trembling light,
Like beauty’s eyes display.
Then sleep no more, though ’round thy heart
Some tender dream may idly play,
For midnight song with magic art,
Shall chase that dream away.
’Tis midnight hour, from flower to flower
The wayward zephyr floats along,
Or lingers in some shady bower,
To hear the night-bird’s song.
Then sleep no more, though ’round thy heart
Some tender dream may idly play,
For midnight song with magic art,
Shall chase that dream away.
The Ingle Side.
It’s rare to see the morning breeze,
Like a bonfire frae the sea;
It’s fair to see the burnie kiss,
The lip o’ the flowery lea.
An’ fine it is on green hillside,
Where hums the busy bee;
But rarer, fairer, finer far,
Is the Ingle side for me.
Glens may be gilt wi’ gowans fair,
The birds may fill the tree;
And haughs hae a’ the scented ware,
That simmer growth can gie;
But the canty hearth where cronies meet,
An’ the darling o’ our e’e,
That makes to us a warld complete--
Oh! the Ingle side for me.
Twilight Dews.
When twilight dews are falling fast,
Upon the rosy sea;
I watch that star whose beams so oft
Hath lighted me to thee.
And thou, too, one that was so dear,
Ah! dost thou gaze at even,
And think, though lost forever here,
Thou’lt yet be mine in Heaven?
There’s not a garden walk I tread,
There’s not a flower I see--
But brings to mind some hope that’s fled,
Some joy I’ve lost with thee.
And now I wish that hour was near,
When friends and foes forgiven--
The pains, the ills we’ve wept through here,
May turn to smiles in heaven.
Napolitaine.
Napolitaine, I am dreaming of thee,
I’m hearing thy foot-falls so joyous and free,
Thy dark, flashing eyes are intwining me yet,
Thy voice with its music I ne’er can forget;
I’m far from the land of thy own sunny home,
Alone in this wide world with sorrow I roam;
In the halls of the gay or wherever it be,
Still Napolitaine, I’m dreaming of thee.
Napolitaine, art thou thinking of me?
Hath absence not banished my memory from thee?
Remember our meetings, their whispers to keep,
When bright eyes were calling all lovers to sleep?
And yet would I not have a shade on thy brow,
As bright as though ’twere lit is thine on me now,
For ’tis memory that brings all thy beauty to me;
Still, Napolitaine, I’m dreaming of thee,
Napolitaine, I’m dreaming of thee,
Napolitaine, I’m dreaming of thee.
The Gay Cavalier.
’Twas a beautiful night, and the stars shone bright,
And the moon o’er the waters played,
When a gay cavalier to a bower drew near,
A maid to serenade;
To tenderest words he swept the chords,
And many a sigh heaved he,
While o’er and o’er he fondly swore,
Sweet maid I love but thee.
Sweet maid, sweet maid, } Repeat.
Sweet maid I love but thee. }
He raised his eyes to her lattice high,
While he softly breathed his hopes,
With amazement he sees, swing about in the breeze,
Already a ladder of ropes,
Up, up he has gone, the bird is flown,
“What is this on the ground?” quoth he;
“Oh it’s plain that she loves, here’s some gentleman’s gloves,
She is off, and it’s not with me.”
For these gloves, these gloves, } Repeat.
They never belonged to me. }
Of course you’d have thought he’d have followed and fought,
As that was a dueling age,
But this gay cavalier, he quite scorned the idea
Of putting himself in a rage;
More wise by far, he put up his guitar,
And as homeward he went, sung he,
“When a lady elopes down a ladder of ropes,
She may go to Hong Kong for me.”
She may go, she may go, } Repeat.
She may go to Hong Kong for me. }
Last Week I Took a Wife.
Last week I took a wife,
And when I first did woo her,
I vow’d to stick through life,
Like Cobler’s wax unto her,
But soon we went to some mishap,
To loggerheads together,
And when my wife began to strap,
Why I began to leather.
Fal lal de ral lal lal de ral lal ra,
Oh, I began to leather.
My wife without her shoes,
Is hardly three feet seven,
And I to all Men’s views,
Am full five feet eleven.
So when to take her down some pegs,
I drubb’d her neat and clever;
She made a bolt right through my legs,
And ran away forever.
When she was gone, good lack!
My hair like hog’s hair bristle,
I thought she’d ne’er come back,
So went to work and whistled.
Then let her go, I’ve got my stall,
Which may no robber rifle,
’Twould break my heart to lose my awl,
To lose my wife’s a trifle.
Dumbarton’s Bonnie Dell.
There’s no a nook in a the land,
By mountain, moss or fell,
There’s naething half sae canty, grand
As blithe Dumbarton’s dell.
And wou’d you speir the reason why,
The truth I’ll fairly tell.
A winsome lassie lives hard by
Dumbarton’s bonnie dell.
Up by yon glen Loch Lomond laves,
And bold Macgregors dwell,
Where bogles dance o’er heroe’s graves,
There lives Dumbarton’s belle.
She’s blest with every charm in life,
And this I know full well,
I’ll ne’er be happy, till my wife,
Is blithe Dumbarton’s belle.
Charity.
Meek and lowly, pure and holy,
Chief among the blessed three,
Turning sadness into gladness,
Heaven born art thou, Charity!
Pity dwelleth in thy bosom;
Kindness reigneth o’er thy heart.
Gentle thoughts alone can sway thee;
Judgment hath in thee no part.
Hoping ever, failing never;
Though deceived, believing still;
Long abiding, all confiding
To thy Heavenly Father’s will;
Never weary of well-doing,
Never fearful of the end;
Claiming all mankind as brothers,
Thou dost all alike befriend.
The Monks of old.
Many have told of the monks of old,
What a saintly race they were,
But ’tis most true, that a merrier crew
Could scarce be found elswhere!
For they sung and laugh’d, and the rich wine quaff’d,
And lived on the daintiest cheer!
For they laugh’d ha! ha! and they quaff’d ha! ha!
And lived on the daintiest cheer!
And then they would jest at the love confess’d
By many an artless Maid,
And what hopes and fears they had breath’d in the ears,
Of those who had sought their aid!
And they sung and laugh’d, and the rich wine quaff’d,
As they told of each love-sick jade!
And they laugh’d ha! ha! and they quaff’d ha! ha!
As they told of each love-sick jade!
And the Abbot meek, with his form so sleek,
Was the heartiest of them all;
And would take his place with a smiling face,
When refection bell would call!
When they sung and laugh’d, and the rich wine quaff’d,
Till they shook the olden wall!
And they laugh’d ha! ha! and they quaff’d ha! ha!
Till they shook the olden wall!
Then say what they will, we’ll drink to them still,
For a jovial band they were!
And ’tis most true, that a merrier crew
Could not be found elswhere!
For they sung and laugh’d, &c.
Bashful Young Man.
They say I shall get over it, but no, I never can;
You’ve no conception what it is to be a bashful man;
I--I--oh dear, I quite forget what I was going to say,
But would the ladies be so good as look another way?
I’d give--I don’t know what I’d not, if it were not the case,
But it’s a fact--I can not look a lady in the face;
I’d rather face--I would, indeed--I know I am a fool--
I’d rather face a crocodile, than meet a ladies’ school.
At parties, when, like other men, I’m ask’d if I won’t dance,
I blush and fidget with my gloves, and wish myself in France,
And while I’m standing stammering, and hanging down my head,
Some sandy-whisker’d coxcomb leads the lady out instead.
I did just touch a lady’s hand, last night, in a quadrille,
Oh, goodness, how my heart did beat! it’s palpitating still.
While my young brother, fresh from school, to show you how I’m
teaz’d,
Said, “Frank, why what a ’muff’ you are, girls like their fingers
squeez’d.”
How am I to get married? I shall never have a wife,
I could never make an offer, I’m convinced, to save my life;
There’s the “quizzing” by the sisters, and the “questions” by mamma,
And the “pumping” that one goes through, in the study, by papa;
Then there’s that horrid honey-moon, the journey with a bride,
And grinning post-boys looking back, and no one else inside;
Oh my, the very thought of it quite takes away my breath,
I’m certain, at the wedding, I should blush myself to death.
Down the Burn, Davy, Love.
When trees did bud, and fields were green,
And broom bloom’d fair to see;
When Mary was complete fifteen,
And love laugh’d in her e’e,--
Blithe Davy’s blinks her heart did move
To speak her mind thus free,
“Gang down the burn, Davy, love,
And I will follow thee.”
Now Davy did each lad surpass
That dwelt on this burn side,
And Mary was the bonniest lass,
Just meet to be a bride.
Blithe Davy’s blinks her heart did move
To speak her mind thus free,
“Gang down the burn, Davy, love,
And I will follow thee.”
Her cheeks were rosy, red, and white,
Her een was bonny blue,
Her locks were like Aurora bright,
Her lips like dropping dew.
Blithe Davy’s blinks her heart did move
To speak her mind thus free,
“Gang down the burn, Davy, love,
And I will follow thee.”
As fate had dealt to him a routh,
Straight to the kirk he led her;
There plight’d her his faith and truth,
And a bonny bride he made her;
No more asham’d to own her love,
Or speak her mind thus free,
“Gang down the burn, Davy, love,
And I will follow thee.”
Call Me Pet Names.
Call me pet names, dearest--call me a bird,
That flies to thy breast at one cherishing word;
That folds its wild wings there, ne’er thinking of flight,
That tenderly sings there, in loving delight.
O, my sad heart is pining for one fond word!
Call me pet names, dearest--call me thy bird.
Call me fond names, dearest--call me a star,
Whose smiles beaming welcome thou feelest from afar,
Whose light is the clearest, the truest to thee,
When the night-time of sorrow steals over life’s sea.
O, trust thy rich bark where its warm rays are!
Call me pet names, darling--call me thy star.
Call me sweet names, darling--call me a flower,
That lives in the light of thy smile each hour;
That droops when its heaven, thy love, grows cold;
That shrinks from the wick’d, the false, and bold;
That blooms for thee only, through sunlight and shower.
Call me pet names, darling--call me a flower.
Call me dear names, darling--call me thine own;
Speak to me always in love’s low tone;
Let not thy look nor thy voice grow cold;
Let my fond worship thy being enfold;
Love me forever, and love me alone;
Call me pet names, darling--call me thine own.
Dermot Astore.
Oh! Dermot Astore, between waking and sleeping,
I heard thy dear voice, and I wept to its lay;
Every pulse of my heart the sweet measure was keeping,
’Til Killarney’s wild echoes had borne it away.
Oh, tell me, my own love, is this our last meeting?
Shall we wander no more in Killarney’s green bowers,
To watch the bright sun o’er the dim hills retreating,
And the wild stag at rest in his bed of spring flowers?
CHORUS.--Oh! Dermot Astore, &c.
Oh! Dermot Astore, how this fond heart would flutter,
When I met thee by night in a shady boreen,
And heard thine own voice in a soft whisper utter
Those words of endearment, “Mavourneen Colleen.”
I know we must part, but oh! say not forever,
That it may be for years adds enough to my pain;
But I’ll cling to the hope that, though now we must sever,
In some bless’d hour I shall meet thee again.
CHORUS.--Oh! Dermot Astore, &c.
Ever of Thee.
Ever of thee I’m fondly dreaming;
Thy gentle voice my spirit can cheer;
Thou wert the star that, mildly beaming,
Shone o’er my path when all was dark and drear.
Still in my heart thy form I cherish;
Every kind thought, like a bird, flies to thee;
Ah! never, till life and memory perish,
Can I forget how dear thou art to me;
Morn, noon, and night, where’er I may be,
Fondly I’m dreaming ever of thee,
Fondly I’m dreaming ever of thee.
Ever of thee, when sad and lonely,
Wandering afar, my soul joy’d to dwell;
Ah! then I felt I loved thee only;
All seem’d to fade before affection’s spell;
Years have not chill’d the love I cherish;
True as the stars hath my heart been to thee;
Ah! never till life, &c.
Hark I Hear an Angel Sing.
Hark! I hear an angel sing--
Angels now are on the wing;
And their voices singing clear,
Tell us that the Spring is near.
Dost thou hear them, gentle one?
Dost thou see the glorious sun,
Rising higher in the sky.
As each day, as each day it passes by?
CHORUS.--Hark I hear an angel sing--
Angels now are on the wing;
And their voices singing clear,
Tell us that the spring is near.
Just beyond yon cliffs of snow,
Silver rivers brightly flow;
Smiling woods and fields are seen,
Mantled in a robe of green.
Birds and bees, and brooks, and flowers,
Tell us of all vernal hours.
There the birds are weaving lays,
For the happy, happy Spring-time days.
Look! oh, look! the southern sky
Mirrors flowers of every dye;
Children tripping o’er the plain:
Spring is coming back again--
Spring is coming! shouts of glee;
Singing birds on bush and tree;
And the bees--their merry hums;
For the Spring-time comes, it comes, it comes!
John Anderson, My Jo, John.
John Anderson, my Jo, John, when nature first began,
To try her canny hand, John, her master-work was man;
And ye amang them a’, John, sae trig frae top to toe,
She proved to be na’ journey-work, John Anderson, my Jo.
John Anderson, my Jo, John, ye were my first conceit,
And ye need na’ think it strange, John, tho’ I ca’ ye trim and neat;
There’s some folks say ye’re old, John, but I ne’er think you so,
For ye are a’ the same to me, John Anderson, my Jo.
John Anderson, my Jo, John, when we were first acquent,
Your locks were like the raven, John, your bonnie brow was brent;
But now ye’re getting auld, John, your locks are like the snow;
Yet blessing on that frosty pow, John Anderson, my Jo.
John Anderson, my Jo, John, frae year to year we’ve past,
And soon that year maun come, John, will bring us to our last;
But let not that affright us, John; our hearts were ne’er our foe;
Tho’ the days are gane that we have seen, John Anderson, my Jo.
John Anderson, my Jo, John, we’ve clamb’d the hill thegither,
And mony a canty day, John, we’ve had wi’ ane anither;
Now we maun totter down, John, but hand in hand we’ll go,
And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson, my Jo.
The Grave of Uncle True.
Beside the worn and moss-grown rock,
The ivy vine doth cling,
And the blue-bird from the shadowy oak,
Folds up his trembling wing;
And there until the vesper hour.
His song comes sweet and low--
A requiem to the faithful heart
That slumbereth below.
CHORUS.--Poor Uncle True,
Poor Uncle True,
And the lamps of heaven shine brightly down
On the grave of Uncle True.
His pilgrimage on earth is done--
His life of toil is o’er,
And summer’s gale or winter’s wail,
Shall meet his ear no more.
Death’s shadow hides his sleeping form,
And vails him from our view,
But the spirit of the past still dwells
Round the grave of Uncle True.
The chaplet wreathed by Gerty’s hand,
Of roses white and red,
Unheeded in their freshness lie
Above his lowly head;
And the evening cricket’s chirp is heard,
When falls the pearly dew,
And the lamps of heaven shine brightly down,
On the grave of Uncle True.
A Dollar or Two.
With cautious step, as we tread our way through
This intricate world as other folks do,--
May we still on our journey be able to view,
The benevolent face of a dollar or two.