If The Aunt Of The Vicar Has

Call A Truce, Then, To Our Labors - Let Us Feast With Friends And Neighbors, And Be Merry As The Custom Of Our Caste; For If ''faint And Forced The Laughter,'' And If Sadness Follow After, We Are Richer By One Mocking Christmas Past.

The White Moth To The Closing Vine, The Bee To The Open Clover, And The Gypsy Blood To The Gypsy Blood Ever The Wide World Over.

There Is Sorrow Enough In The Natural Way From Men And Woman To Fill Our Day; But When We Are Certain Of Sorrow In Store, Why Do We Always Arrange For More? Brothers & Sisters, I Bid You Beware Of Giving Your Heart To A Dog To Tear.

Go Softly By That River Side Or When You Would Depart, You'll Find Its Every Winding Tied; And Knotted Round Your Heart.

I Have My Own Matches And Sulphur, And I'll Make My Own Hell.