Not All The Labour Of The Earth

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.

There's Lots Of People - This Town Wouldn't Hold Them; Who Don't Know Much Excepting What's Told Them.

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.

But I Have Learned A Thing Or Two; I Know As Sure As Fate, When We Lock Up Our Lives For Wealth, The Gold Key Comes Too Late.

If There's A Heaven Upon The Earth, A Fellow Knows It When He's Been Away From Home A Week, And Then Gets Back Again.