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Sida 363 - But these are the days of advance, the works of the men of mind, When who but a fool would have faith in a tradesman's ware or his word? Is it peace or war? Civil war, as I think, and that of a kind The viler, as underhand, not openly bearing the sword.
Sida 140 - Why Should I Weep, wail, or sigh? What if luck has passed me by? What if my hopes are dead> — My pleasures fled? Have I not still My fill Of right good cheer, — Cigars and beer? Go, whining youth, Forsooth ! Go, weep and wail, Sigh and grow pale, Weave melancholy rhymes On the old times, Whose joys like shadowy ghosts appear, But leave to me my beer!
Sida 55 - Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. He smoked his pipe in the balmy air, Every night when the sun went down, While the soft wind played in his silvery hair, Leaving...
Sida 55 - He sat at his door, one midsummer night, After the sun had sunk in the west, And the lingering beams of golden light Made his kindly old face look warm and bright, While the odorous night- wind whispered "Rest!
Sida 53 - Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. With the stupidest boys he was kind and cool, Speaking only in gentlest tones; The rod was hardly known in his school . . . Whipping, to him, was a barbarous rule, And too hard work for his poor old bones; Besides, it was painful, he sometimes said: "We should make life pleasant, down here below, The living need charity more than the dead," Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago.
Sida 54 - He lived in the house by the hawthorn lane, With roses and woodbine over the door; His rooms were quiet, and neat, and plain, But a spirit of comfort there held reign, And made him forget he was old and poor; "I need so little," he often said; "And my friends and relatives here below Won't litigate over me when I am dead," Said the jolly old pedagogue long ago.
Sida 23 - GRAY distance hid each shining sail, By ruthless breezes borne from me And, lessening, fading, faint and pale, My ships went forth to sea. Where misty breakers rose and fell I stood and sorrowed hopelessly ; For every wave had tales to tell Of wrecks far out at sea. To-day, a song is on my lips : Earth seems a paradise to me : For God is good, and, lo, my ships \ Are coming home from sea ! THE MATRON YEAR.
Sida 52 - But a wonderful twinkle shone in his eye; And he sang every night as he went to bed, "Let us be happy down here below: The living should live, though the dead be dead," Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago.
Sida 224 - O'er hill and field the blackbirds southward fly; The brown leaves rustle down the forest glade, Where naked branches make a fitful shade, And the last blooms of autumn withered lie.
Sida 309 - Winds, and our flag of stripe and star Shall bear to coasts that lie afar, Where men shall wonder at the view, And ask in what fair groves they grew...

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