Let Me Live In A House By

There Are Purple Grapes In The Land Of Git-thare.

The Woods Were Made For The Hunters Of Dreams, The Brooks For The Fisher Of Song; To The Hunters Who Hunt For The Gunless Game The Streams And The Woods Belong. There Are Thoughts That Moan From The Soul Of The Pine And Thoughts In A Flower-bell Curled; And The Thoughts That Are Blown With The Scent Of The Fern Are As New And As Old As The World.

Strew Gladness On The Paths Of Men-you Will Not Pass This Way Again.

Seek Not For Fresher Founts Afar, Just Drop Your Bucket Where You Are; And While The Ship Right Onward Leaps, Uplift It From The Exhaustless Deeps. Parch Not Your Life With Dry Despair; The Stream Of Hope Flow Everywhere-- So Under Every Sky And Star, Just Drop Your Bucket Where You Are.

W'en You See A Man In Woe, Walk Right Up And Say 'hullo'; Say "hullo" And "how D'ye Do. How's The World A-usin' You?