PENNILESS.
77
His little heart holds no deceit,
No touch of intrigue or of art,
He likes, and dislikes, nothing loth,
To cut your friendship short,
If any favorite whim you cross,
Mama is his stronghold ever,
His umpire and his joy,
And no treasure doth she prize,
Like her mischief making boy.
No touch of intrigue or of art,
He likes, and dislikes, nothing loth,
To cut your friendship short,
If any favorite whim you cross,
Mama is his stronghold ever,
His umpire and his joy,
And no treasure doth she prize,
Like her mischief making boy.
PENNILESS.
Heart-sick and weary, and penniless too,
Starving and toiling for bread,
Rain beating down on the curtainless pane,
Beating down too, on the dead,
Who lie in their graves and feel not the grip;
Of Poverty's unyielding hand,
Sorrow and misery mocking the name,
Of Christ in a Christian land.
Starving and toiling for bread,
Rain beating down on the curtainless pane,
Beating down too, on the dead,
Who lie in their graves and feel not the grip;
Of Poverty's unyielding hand,
Sorrow and misery mocking the name,
Of Christ in a Christian land.
