Each day there is sunshine, Each day there are showers, Means some day in May Day We’ll be picking wild flowers.
I’m yet in the path A jogging along, That’s leading to the righteous Away from the wrong.
We have not time To talk evil of others, For losing enemies To gain heavenly brothers.
Oh, Lord! May the day be long In which you have power To sound the heavenly gong.
We know this means Our last day, Bless us and save us In that land far away.
Down a beautiful country road The roses in bloom and their perfume strewed, Oh! the joy it brought to my heart, ’Twas so tender, so sweet, I couldn ne’er depart From that place where little Mary lives.
Oh! that spot beside the hill Where nature and beauty can always build, Tells a story it really seems And will always be life’s sweetest dream Of that place where little Mary lives.
When she plucked and gave to me A beautiful rose in a manner so free, The heavenly breezes begin to blow And the tenderness through my heart did flow For that place where little Mary lives.
That was a day of God’s decree, And oh! no scenes could sweeter be, They soothed my heart and eased my pain, May the bright sunshine ne’er turn to rain, Down where little Mary lives.
But summer is soon to fade away, Followed by a cold winter day. The howling winds in the month of December, But that dear little rose I’ll always remember That come from the place where little Mary lives.
Now I see the blustery snow And it’s changed the scenes where I used to go, It’s all over white Though the stars are shining bright, How sad be that place where little Mary lives.
At times I think and really sigh To think of those roses that are sleeping nearby. But they will return To my heart that yearns, And for that place and its beauty Where little Mary lives.
Why are great men’s lives Thrown into the mist? One’s who aim at the sky, Are found at the bottom of the list.
I met a man The other day On a Chicago train. By the way His face was strange And very old, And holds a sad story Yet to be told. He says, my boy, We’ll have a drink. I said, no I thank you, Mr. Fink.
Then he gave a real deep sigh, Like a child about to cry. In a moment he raised and said, Then he stroked his old bald head, Patting me on my shoulder then. He faded his wrinkles into a grin, Now my lad, as I sit and think, May you never be like Mr. Fink.