Strew Gladness On The Paths Of Men-you

Let Me Live In My House By The Side Of The Road, Where The Race Of Men Go By; They Are Good, They Are Bad; They Are Weak, They Are Strong, Wise, Foolish,--so Am I; Then Why Should I Sit In The Scorner's Seat, Or Hurl The Cynic's Ban? Let Me Live In My House By The Side Of The Road, And Be A Friend To Man.

Seek Not For Fresher Founts Afar, Just Drop Your Bucket Where You Are; And While The Ship Right Onward Leaps, Uplift It From The Exhaustless Deeps. Parch Not Your Life With Dry Despair; The Stream Of Hope Flow Everywhere-- So Under Every Sky And Star, Just Drop Your Bucket Where You Are.

Just Drop Your Bucket Where You Are.

There Are Purple Grapes In The Land Of Git-thare.

There Are Hermit Souls That Live Withdrawn In The Place Of Their Self-content; There Are Souls Like Stars That Dwell Apart, In A Fellowless Firmament; There Are Pioneer Souls That Blaze Their Paths Where Highways Never Ran,-- But Let Me Live By The Side Of The Road, And Be A Friend To Man.