Then old Towser bounded forward, Passed the open kitchen door; Bessie screamed and quickly followed, But John Henry's gone before. Down the path he speeds most quickly, For old Towser sets the pace; And the maiden close behind them Shows them she is in the race. Then the clothesline, can she get it? And her eyes grow big and bright; And she springs and grasps it firmly: "Towser shall be tied to-night."
Oftentimes a little minute Forms the destiny of men. You can change the fate of nations By the stroke of one small pen. Towser made one last long effort, Caught John Henry by the pants, But John Henry kept on running For he thought that his last chance. But the maiden held on firmly, And the rope was drawn up tight. But old Towser kept the garments, For he was not tied that night.
Then the father hears the racket; With long strides he soon is there, When John Henry and the maiden, Crouching, for the worst prepare. At his feet John tells his story, Shows his clothing soiled and torn; And his face so sad and pleading, Yet so white and scared and worn, Touched the old man's heart with pity, Filled his eyes with misty light. "Take her, boy, and make her happy,-- Towser shall be tied to-night."
O Liberty, thou child of Law, God's seal is on thy brow! O Law, her Mother first and last, God's very self art thou! Two flowers alike, yet not alike, On the same stem that grow, Two friends who cannot live apart, Yet seem each other's foe. One, the smooth river's mirrored flow Which decks the world with green; And one, the bank of sturdy rock Which hems the river in. O Daughter of the timeless Past, O Hope the Prophets saw, God give us Law in Liberty And Liberty in Law!
Beneath the hot midsummer sun The men had marched all day, And now beside a rippling stream Upon the grass they lay. Tiring of games and idle jest As swept the hours along, They cried to one who mused apart, "Come, friend, give us a song."
"I fear I can not please," he said; "The only songs I know Are those my mother used to sing For me long years ago." "Sing one of those," a rough voice cried. "There's none but true men here; To every mother's son of us A mother's songs are dear."
Then sweetly rose the singer's voice Amid unwonted calm: "Am I a soldier of the Cross, A follower of the Lamb? And shall I fear to own His cause?" The very stream was stilled, And hearts that never throbbed with fear, With tender thoughts were filled.