Songs of the soil; a small sheaf of verse from the field where poetry is lived . d his nose—then sinkin,Jest like a lump o coal,Sodeep—blub, bhib—hed answer;At our eld swimmin hole. You folks that has your beaches,Your seasides or your lakes,I often wonder, us plain country jakesAint had the fun youre seekin,Tho you would think it droll—Well, leastwise we was happyAt our old swimmin hole. ^? ^-C Work and Live-Today Page Twenty-eight The man of whom I who rouses all my ire And makes me want my varnisheddesk to the fellow whos complainingAll the time—or else explainin
Songs of the soil; a small sheaf of verse from the field where poetry is lived . d his nose—then sinkin,Jest like a lump o coal,Sodeep—blub, bhib—hed answer;At our eld swimmin hole. You folks that has your beaches,Your seasides or your lakes,I often wonder, us plain country jakesAint had the fun youre seekin,Tho you would think it droll—Well, leastwise we was happyAt our old swimmin hole. ^? ^-C Work and Live-Today Page Twenty-eight The man of whom I who rouses all my ire And makes me want my varnisheddesk to the fellow whos complainingAll the time—or else explainingThat his jobs the hardest one youever saw, At more work hes always balkingAnd eternally is talking Of the time when hell retire, with-draw, or quitAnd enjoy himself—forgettingThat the man whos always frettingOer the present, finds the future amisfit. Dont forget—its NOW were livingAnd the service that were givingIs brimful of pleasures soon is work to do—and pleasureTo enjoy—dont wait for leisureAnd retire—much better die withharness Page Twenty-nine Contentment Page Thirty
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Keywords: ., bookcentury1900, bookdecade1920, bookidsongsofsoils, bookyear1922
