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!

So I have talked with Betsey and Betsey has talked with me, And we have agreed together that we can't never agree

To appreciate heaven well, it's good for a person to have some fifteen minutes of hell.

Over all our happy country - over all our Nation spread, Is a band of noble heroes - is our Army of the Dead.

Boys flying kites haul in their white winged birds; You can't do that way when you're flying words. Careful with fire, is good advice we know Careful with words, is ten times doubly so. Thoughts unexpressed may sometimes fall back dead; But God Himself can't kill them when they're said.

Cover them over with beautiful flowers, Deck them with garlands, those brothers of ours, Lying so silent by night and by day Sleeping the years of their manhood away. Give them the meed they have won in the past; Give them the honors their future forcast; Give them the chaplets they won in the strife; Give them the laurels they lost with their life.

Over the hill to the poor-house I'm trudgin' my weary way.