There's a fabulous story
Full of splendor and glory,
That Arabian legends transcends;
Of the wealth without measure,
The coffers of treasure,
At the place where the rainbow ends.

Oh, many have sought it,
And all would have bought it,
With the blood we so recklessly spend;
But none has uncovered,
The gold, nor discovered
The spot at the rainbow's end.

They have sought it in battle,
And e'en where the rattle
Of dice with man's blasphemy blends;
But howe'er persuasive,
It still proves evasive,

T HERE'S a dear little plant that grows in our isle,
— 'Twas Saint Patrick himself sure that set it;
And the sun on his labor with pleasure did smile,
— — And with dew from his eye often wet it.
It thrives through the bog, through the brake, and the mireland;
And he called it the dear little shamrock of Ireland —
— The sweet little shamrock, the dear little shamrock,
— The sweet little, green little, shamrock of Ireland!

This dear little plant still grows in our land,
— Fresh and fair as the daughters of Erin,

T HERE'S A COMFORTING THOUGHT at the close of the day,
When I'm weary and lonely and sad,
That sort of grips hold of my crusty old heart
And bids it be merry and glad.
It gets in my soul and it drives out the blues,
And finally thrills through and through.
It is just a sweet memory that chants the refrain:
" I'm glad I touch shoulders with you! "

Did you know you were brave, did you know you were strong?
Did you know there was one leaning hard?
Did you know that I waited and listened and prayed,
And was cheered by your simplest word?

T HERE'S a city that lies in the Kingdom of Clouds,
—In the glorious country on high,
Which an azure and silvery curtain enshrouds,
—To screen it from mortal eye;

A city of temples and turrets of gold,
—That gleam by a sapphire sea,
Like jewels more splendid than earth may behold,
—Or are dreamed of by you and by me.

And about it are highlands of amber that reach
—Far away till they melt in the gloom;
And waters that hem an immaculate beach
—With fringes of luminous foam.

Aerial bridges of pearl there are,

There's a black fog hiding London
And every tree looks dead,
But I've seen a purple crocus and a jonquil's golden head.
The shallow ponds are frozen
And there's snow upon the hills,
But they're selling scarlet tulips now and yellow daffodils.

A bitter wind is blowing,
The rivers are abrim,
But I toss my head at Winter, I am not afraid of him.
Although the sun is shrouded
Spring is just across the sea,
For I've seen a spray of lilac and a red anemone.

T HERE'S A BIT of sky across the street
Which I have learned to love,
One end of it rests on the house tops high,
The other on the heavens above.
It looks most beautiful at times
And has been such a comfort, too,
That when I look thro' my windowpane
I call it my " Patch of Blue. "
When I think of God's great universe
With its vast expanse of sky,
And of those who can roam from sea to sea
Without a thought of why
This wondrous joy is given to them
By a God so kind and true,
I wonder if they are quite as glad

T HERE'S a barrel-organ caroling across a golden street,
— In the City as the sun sinks low;
And the music's not immortal; but the world has made it sweet
— And fulfilled it with the sunset glow;
And it pulses through the pleasures of the City and the pain
— That surround the singing organ like a large eternal light;
And they've given it a glory and a part to play again
— In the Symphony that rules the day and night.

And now it's marching onward through the realms of old romance,
— And trolling out a fond familiar tune,

Oh give me of thy waters pure and clear
For my soul pants beneath this sultry hour
There is no spring nor running river near
That can assuage the burning fever's power
Oh grant me of thy spirit now to taste
Such as it was to me when I obeyed
Then may I walk amid this scorching waste
Nor sink its waters has my thirst allayed
I rise and now can run I now can bear
The heaviest burthen Thou mayst on me place
Oh give but of thy rich grace to share
And I no more will wet with tears my face
Nor mourn that hope hast left me but press on

Therefore, when thou wouldst pray, or dost thine alms,
Blow not a trump before thee: Hypocrites
Do thus, vaingloriously; the common streets
Boast of their largess, echoing their psalms.
On such the laud of men, like unctuous balms,
Falls with sweet savor. Impious Counterfeits!
Prating of heaven, for earth their bosom beats!
Grasping at weeds, they lose immortal palms!

There will be a rusty gun on the wall, sweetheart,
The rifle grooves curling with flakes of rust.
A spider will make a silver string nest in the
darkest, warmest corner of it.
The trigger and the range-finder, they too will be rusty.
And no hands will polish the gun, and it will hang on the wall.
Forefingers and thumbs will point absently and casually toward it.
It will be spoken among half-forgotten, wished-to-be-forgotten things.
They will tell the spider: Go on, you're doing good work.