I mustn't forget that I'm gettin' old,
That's the worst thing ever a man can do.
I must keep in mind without bein' told
This I would like to be- braver and bolder,
Just a bit wiser because I am older,
Just a bit kinder to those I may meet,
Tell me, what is half so sweet
As a baby's tiny feet,
Pink and dainty as can be,
A friend is one who takes your hand
And talks a speech you understand
he's partly kindness, partly mirth
And Faith unfaltering in your worths
There isn't any pay for you, you serve without reward,
The boys who tramp the fields with you but little could afford.
And yet your pay is richer far than those who toil for gold,
This is the sort of a man was he:
True when it hurt him a lot to be;
Tight in a corner an' knowin' a lie
HE has not lived in vain
If men can say
When he has passed away:
"He labored not for gain.'
They spoke it bravely, grimly, in their darkest hours of doubt;
They spoke it when their hope was low and when their strength gave out;
We heard it from the dying in those troubled days now gone,
And they breathed it as their slogan for the living: 'Carry on!'
Be grateful for the kindly friends that walk along your way;
Be grateful for the skies of blue that smile from day to day;
Be grateful for the health you own, the work you find to do,
For round about you there are men less fortunate than you.