Over The Hill To The Poor-house I'm

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

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.

If There's A Heaven Upon The Earth, A Fellow Knows It When He's Been Away From Home A Week, And Then Gets Back Again.

Over The Hill To The Poor-house I'm Trudgin' My Weary Way.

Cover Them Over With Beautiful Flowers, Deck Them With Garlands, Those Brothers Of Ours, Lying So Silent By Night And By Day.