Not All The Labour Of The Earth

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.

There's Lots Of People - This Town Wouldn't Hold Them; Who Don't Know Much Excepting What's Told Them.

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.

So I Have Talked With Betsey And Betsey Has Talked With Me, And We Have Agreed Together That We Can't Never Agree

The Editor Sat In His Sanctum, His Countenance Furrowed With Care, His Mind At The Bottom Of Business, His Feet At The Top Of A Chair, His Chair-arm An Elbow Supporting, His Right Hand Upholding His Head, His Eyes On His Dusty Old Table, With Different Documents Spread.