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Posts Tagged ‘anonymous’

If you your lips would keep from slips,
Five things observe with care:
Of whom you speak, to whom you speak,
And how and when and where. 

If you your ears would save from jeers,
These things keep meekly hid:
Myself and I, and mine and my,
And how I do and did.

 

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If I had the power to turn back the clock,
Go back to that house at the end of the block.
The house that was home when I was a kid,
I know that I’d love it more now than I did.

If I could be back there at my mother’s knee,
And hear once again, the things she told me.
I’d listen now as I never listened before,
For she knew so well what life had in store.

And all the advice my dad used to give…
His voice I’ll remember as long as I live.
But it didn’t seem really important then;
What I’d give to live it all over again.

What I’d give for the chance I once had,
to do so much more for my mom and dad.
To give them more joy and a little less pain,
A little more sunshine – a little less rain.

But years roll on and I cannot go back,
Whether I was born in a mansion or a shack.
I can start right now in the hour that’s here,
To do something more for the ones I hold dear.

And since time in its flight is traveling so fast,
I can’t spend it regretting that which is past.
But I’ll try to make tomorrow a happier day,
By doing my good unto others…Today.

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I wish I had been His apprentice,
To see Him each morning at seven,
As He tossed His gray tunic about Him,
The Master of earth and of heaven;

When He lifted the lid of His work-chest
And opened His carpenter’s kit,
And looked at His chisels and augers,
And took the bright tools out of it;

When He gazed at the rising sun tinting
The dew on the opening flowers,
And He smiled at the thought of His Father
Whose love floods this fair world of ours;

When He fastened the apron about Him,
And put on His workingman’s cap,
And grasped the smooth haft of His hammer
To give the bent woodwork a tap,

Saying, “Lad, let us finish this ox yoke,
The farmer must finish his crop.”
Oh, I wish I had been His apprentice
And worked in the Nazareth shop.

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No matter how little he’s getting,
No matter how little he’s got,
If he wears a grin, and is trying to win
He is doing a mighty lot!

No matter how humble his job is
If he’s striving to reach the crest,
The world has a prize for the fellow who tries –
The man who is doing his best!

Today he may be at the bottom
Of the ladder to wealth or fame;
On the lowest rung where he’s bravely clung,
In spite of the knocks – dead game!

And slowly he’s gaining a foothold,
His eyes on the uppermost roun’;
It’s a hard old climb, but he knows in time
He will land – and be looking down!

The fellow who never surrenders,,
And is taking things as they come;
Who never says “quit,” and exhibits grit,
When the whole world is looking  glum;

The fellow who stays to the finish,
That nothing can hinder or stop,
And who works like sin, is the man who’ll win –
And some day he’ll land on top!

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They followed Him by thousands when he took some fish and bread
And a banquet in the desert by His miracle was spread.
They sang aloud, “Hosanna!” and they shouted, “Praise His name!”
When in an hour of glory to Jerusalem He came.
They followed when He told them of a kingdom and a throne,
But when He went to Calvary, He went there all alone.

It seems that many people still would follow Him today
If He only went to places where everything was gay.
For the kingdom that they’re seeking isn’t one the world scorns.
And the crown of which they’re singing isn’t one that’s made of thorns.
Oh, they’ll follow for the fishes over land and over sea,
And they’ll join the church at Zion, but not at Calvary.

It’s so easy, friends, to follow when the nets are full of fish,
When the loaves are spread before you and you’re eating all you wish.
When no lands, nor lots, nor houses and no friendships are at stake,
When there’s no mob to mock you and you have no cross to take.
But you’ll need some faith to follow down through Gethsemane,
And you’ll need some love to follow up to Calvary!

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Ole Abe (God bless ‘is ole soul!)
Got a plenty good victuals, an’ a plenty good clo’es.
Got powder, an’ shot, an’ lead,
To bust in Adam’s liddle Confed’
In dese hard times. 

Oh, once dere was union, an’ den dere was peace;
De slave, in de cornfield, bare up to his knees.
But de Rebel’s in gray, an’ Sesesh’s in de way,
An’ de slave’ll be free
In dese hard times.

 

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William Henry Harrison

A song during William Henry Harrison’s presidential campaign
against incumbent Martin Van Buren:

What has caused this great commotion, motion,
…….Our country through?
…….It is the ball a-rolling on,
For Tippecanoe and Tyler too, Tippecanoe and Tyler too.
And with them we’ll beat little Van, Van, Van;
…….Van is a used-up man.

 

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The hen remarked to the mooley cow,
As she cackled her daily lay,
(That is, the hen cackled) “It’s funny how
I’m good for an egg a day.
I’m a fool to do it, for what do I get?
My food and my lodging. My!
But the poodle gets that – he’s the household pet,
And he never has laid a single egg yet –
Not even when eggs are high.”

The mooley cow remarked to the hen,
As she masticated her cud,
(That is, the cow did) “Well, what then?
You quit, and your name is mud.
I’m good for eight gallons of milk each day,
And I’m given my stable and grub;
But the parrot gets that much, anyway, –
All she can gobble – and what does she pay?
Not a dribble of milk, the dub!”

But the hired man remarked to the pair,
“You get all that’s coming to you.
The poodle does tricks, and the parrot can swear,
Which is better than you can do.
You’re necessary, but what’s the use
Of bewailing your daily part?
You’re bourgeois – working’s your only excuse;
You can’t do nothing but just produce –
What them fellers does is ART!”

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I loathe, abhor, detest, despise,
Abominate dried-apple pies.
I like good bread, I like good meat,
Or anything that’s fit to eat;
But of all poor grub beneath the skies,
The poorest is dried apple pies.
Give me the toothache, or sore eyes,
But don’t give me dried apple pies.
The farmer takes his gnarliest fruit,
‘Tis wormy, bitter, and hard, to boot;
He leaves the hulls to make us cough,
And don’t take half the peeling off.
Then on a dirty cord ’tis strung
And in a garret window hung,
And there it serves as roost for flies,
Until it’s made up into pies.
Tread on my corns, or tell me lies,
But don’t pass me dried-apple pies.

 

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The Great Jehovah speaks to us,
In Genesis and Exodus,
Leviticus and Numbers see,
Followed by Deuteronomy,
Joshua and Judges sway the land,
Ruth gleans a sheaf with trembling hand,
Samuel and numerous Kings appear,
Whose Chronicles we wondering hear;
Ezra and Nehemiah now
Esther the beauteous mourner show;
Job speaks in sighs, David in Psalms,
The Proverbs teach to scatter alms.
Ecclesiastes then comes on,
And the sweet song of Solomon.
Isaiah, Jeremiah then
With Lamentations takes his pen.
Ezekiel, Daniel, Hosea’s lyres
Swell Joel, Amos, Obadiah’s.
Next Jonah, Micah, Nahum come,
And lofty Habakkuk finds room,
Rapt Zephaniah, Haggai calls,
While Zechariah builds the walls;
And Malachi, with garments rent,
Concludes the ancient Testament.

 

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