So I Have Talked With Betsey And

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.

Thanksgiving-day, I Fear, If One The Solemn Truth Must Touch, Is Celebrated, Not So Much To Thank The Lord For Blessing O'er, As For The Sake Of Getting More!

Over The Hill To The Poor-house I'm Trudgin' My Weary Way.

Cover Them Over With Beautiful Flowers, Deck Them With Garlands, Those Brothers Of Ours, Lying So Silent By Night And By Day.

Yellow, Mellow, Ripened Days, Sheltered In A Golden Coating; O'er The Dreamy, Listless Haze, White And Dainty Cloudlets Floating; Winking At The Blushing Trees, And The Sombre, Furrowed Fallow; Smiling At The Airy Ease, Of The Southward Flying Swallow Sweet And Smiling Are Thy Ways, Beauteous, Golden Autumn Days.