The roses you hold Though they are withering away, In their heart is my love And a brighter day.
Their petals now drooped But fragrance still sweet, My heart with trueness For you ever beats.
All the whole world And its treasures of gold Could tell no sweeter story Than these roses have told.
So fate could ne’er send No sweeter one, dear, Than you with your love And tender care.
Eyes that speak Are worth their weight in gold. For many a aching heart With love they console.
They have no words Like the trembling lips, Though glance by glance You can read their manuscript.
Gee, Gee, Yo better quit dat pestern me. Woe, tell I unkiber dis corn, A raskul like yo shud nebber ben bon, When de sun comes out yo am looken fo de cool An’ dat’s de powful acten uv a lazy mule.
Den dah’s de minet I gits de bridle Yo eyes am shut yo mine goes idle. Did yo had no risens or go to school--no. Ah, dat’s de rezen yo’s a lazy mule.
Now maybe tumorh I’ll drove yo tu town, And what I means yo gwine tu sweep de groun, Yo won’t drug along acten a fool, Yo’ll git up an muv, lazy mule.
Yo ets a wagon loder con an’ a bale o hay, Den yo leans er ginst de fence when yo goes tu bray, I recken som time you’ll ax fo a stool So you kin set doun yo lazy mule.
Den tu I recken I’ll trade yo off, Yo lon nekhog, yo ets de hay out de loft, Now yo kin git mad but I got er nu rule, Yo good for nothen lazy mule.
And when I goes tu mak dis deal, Yo run around de barn an’ kick up yo heal, Stah rit sid dat ole marh Brule Den de man won’t no he’s giten sich a lazy mule.
Ah, an when he gits yo you’ll cease tu balk, Fo he am goter a chalklin yo has tu walk, From dat dah on yo’ll be a liven tool Dat I’ll en yo actens uv er lazy mule.
An mah de dah come when yo cease tu breve Den yo’ll flot wid de angles fru de trees, An de buzzards will fite one mo duel An I’ll sah dah gones de essene uv dat lazy mule.
If I can compose my way to success Then some time I’ll compose the rest, It will be of my childhood days Building mud houses for different plays.
Oh! I was bad and mischievous, too, And always looking for something to do, And when I found nothing I surely was sad, To be good very long would make me mad.
Though I longed to go to school, But I was poor and fate overruled, Then my mother, whom I love so dear, Passed away at the end of the year.