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

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.

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!

Worm or beetle - drought or tempest - on a farmer's land may fall, Each is loaded full o' ruin, but a mortgage beats 'em all.

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

We thank Thee, O Father of all, for... all the soul-help that sad souls understand.

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.