Laugh out, O stream, from your bed of green, / Where you lie in the sun's embrace; / And talk to the reeds that o'er you lean / To touch your dimpled face.

Come up, April, though the valley, / In your robes of beauty drest, / Come and wake your flowery children / From their wintry beds of rest.

O men, grown sick with toil and care, Leave for awhile the crowded mart; O women, sinking with despair, Weary of limb and faint of heart, Forget your years to-day and come As children back to childhood's house.

For of all hard things to bear and grin, / The hardest is knowing you're taken in.

Do we call the star lost that is hidden / In the great light of morn?

Books were put out, and 'had a run,' / Like coinage from the mint; / But which could fill the place of one, / That one they wouldn't print?

Only yield when you must, never "give up the ship," but fight on to the last "with a stiff upper lip!