Not All The Labour Of The Earth

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.

Not All The Labour Of The Earth Is Done By Hardened Hands.

Cover Them Over With Beautiful Flowers, Deck Them With Garlands, Those Brothers Of Ours, Lying So Silent By Night And By Day Sleeping The Years Of Their Manhood Away. Give Them The Meed They Have Won In The Past; Give Them The Honors Their Future Forcast; Give Them The Chaplets They Won In The Strife; Give Them The Laurels They Lost With Their Life.

We Thank Thee, O Father Of All, For... All The Soul-help That Sad Souls Understand.

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