Not All The Labour Of The Earth

Over The Hill To The Poor-house I'm Trudgin' My Weary Way.

The Editor Sat In His Sanctum, His Countenance Furrowed With Care, His Mind At The Bottom Of Business, His Feet At The Top Of A Chair, His Chair-arm An Elbow Supporting, His Right Hand Upholding His Head, His Eyes On His Dusty Old Table, With Different Documents Spread.

Not All The Labour Of The Earth Is Done By Hardened Hands.

Cover Them Over With Beautiful Flowers, Deck Them With Garlands, Those Brothers Of Ours, Lying So Silent By Night And By Day Sleeping The Years Of Their Manhood Away. Give Them The Meed They Have Won In The Past; Give Them The Honors Their Future Forcast; Give Them The Chaplets They Won In The Strife; Give Them The Laurels They Lost With Their Life.

I've Watched My Duty, Straight An' True, An' Tried To Do It Well; Part Of The Time Kept Heaven In View, An' Part Steered Clear Of Hell.