James Whitcomb Riley

Who bides his time, and day by day Faces defeat full patiently, And lifts a mirthful roundelay, However poor his fortunes be,-- He will not fail in any qualm Of poverty -- the paltry dime It will grow golden in his palm, Who bides his time.

Who bides his time -- he tastes the sweet Of honey in the saltest tear; And though he fares with slowest feet, Joy runs to meet him, drawing near; The birds are hearalds of his cause; And, like a never-ending rhyme, The roadsides bloom in his applause, Who bides his time.

Who bides his time, and fevers not In the hot race that none achieves, Shall wear cool-wreathen laurel, wrought With crimson berries in the leaves; And he shall reign a goodly king, And sway his hand o'er every clime With peace writ on his signet-ring, Who bides his time.

Our hired girl, she's 'Lizabuth Ann; An' she can cook best things to eat! She ist puts dough in our pie-pan, An' pours in somepin' 'at's good an' sweet; An' nen she salts it all on top With cinnamon; an' nen she'll stop An' stoop an' slide it, ist as slow, In th' old cook-stove, so's 'twon't slop An' git all spilled; nen bakes it, so It's custard-pie, first thing you know! An' nen she'll say, "Clear out o' my way! They's time fer work, an' time fer play! Take yer dough, an' run, child, run! Er I cain't git no cookin' done!"

When our hired girl 'tends like she's mad, An' says folks got to walk the chalk When she's around, er wisht they had! I play out on our porch an' talk To Th' Raggedy Man 'at mows our lawn; An' he says, "Whew!" an' nen leans on His old crook-scythe, and blinks his eyes, An' sniffs all 'round an' says, "I swawn! Ef my old nose don't tell me lies, It 'pears like I smell custard-pies!" An' nen he'll say, "Clear out o' my way! They's time fer work, an' time fer play! Take yer dough, an' run, child, run! Er she cain't git no cookin' done!"

Wunst our hired girl, when she Got the supper, an' we all et, An' it wuz night, an' Ma an' me An' Pa went wher' the "Social" met,-- An' nen when we come home, an' see A light in the kitchen door, an' we Heerd a maccordeun, Pa says, "Lan'-- O'-Gracious! who can her beau be?" An' I marched in, an' 'Lizabuth Ann Wuz parchin' corn fer The Raggedy Man! Better say, "Clear out o' the way! They's time fer work, an' time fer play! Take the hint, an' run, child, run! Er we cain't git no courtin' done!"

There! little girl; don't cry! They have broken your doll, I know; And your tea-set blue, And your play-house, too, Are things of the long ago; But childish troubles will soon pass by. -- There! little girl; don't cry!

There! little girl; don't cry! They have broken your slate, I know; And the glad, wild ways Of your schoolgirl days Are things of the long ago; But life and love will soon come by. -- There! little girl; don't cry!

There! little girl; don't cry! They have broken your heart I know; And the rainbow gleams Of your youthful dreams Are things of the long ago; But Heaven holds all for which you sigh. -- There! little girl; don't cry!

O I will walk with you, my lad, whichever way you fare, You'll have me, too, the side o' you, with heart as light as air; No care for where the road you take's a-leadin' anywhere,-- It can but be a joyful ja'nt whilst you journey there. The road you take's the path o' love, an' that's the bridth o' two-- An' I will walk with you, my lad -- O I will walk with you.

Ho! I will walk with you, my lad, Be weather black or blue Or roadsides frost or dew, my lad -- O I will walk with you.

Aye, glad, my lad, I'll walk with you, whatever winds may blow, Or summer blossoms stay our steps, or blinding drifts of snow; The way thay you set face an' foot 's the way that I will go, An' brave I'll be, abreast o' ye, the Saints and Angels know! With loyal hand in loyal hand, an' one heart made o' two, Through summer's gold, or winter's cold, It's I will walk with you.

Sure, I will walk with you, my lad, A love ordains me to,-- To Heaven's door, an' through, my lad. O I will walk with you.