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THE HOMELY MAN
LOOKS as though a cyclone hit him
Can t buy clothes that seem to fit him;
An his cheeks are rough like leather,
Made for standin any weather.
Outwards he wuz fashioned plainly,
Loose o joint an blamed ungainly,
But I d give a lot if I d
Been prepared so fine inside.
Best thing I can tell you of him
Is the way the children love him.
Now an* then I get to thinkin
He is much like old Abe Lincoln
Homely like a gargoyle graven,
An looks worse when he s unshaven;
But I d take his ugly phiz
Jes to have a heart like his.
I ain t over-sentimental,
But old Blake is so blamed gentle
An so thoughtful-like of others
He reminds us of our mothers.
Rough roads he is always smoothin ,
An his way is, oh, so soothin
That he takes away the sting
When your heart is sorrowing.
The Homely Man
From a painting by M. L. BOVVER.
Children gather round about him
Like they can t get on without him.
An the old depend upon him,
Pilin* all their burdens on him,
Like as though the thing that grieves em
Has been lifted when he leaves em.
Homely? That can t be denied.
But he s glorious inside.
THE WORKMAN’S DREAM
TO-DAY it’s dirt and dust and steam,
Tomorrow it will be the same,
And through it all the soul must dream
And try to play a manly game;
Dirt, dust and steam and harsh commands,
Yet many a soft hand passes by
And only thinks he understands
The purpose of my task and why.
I ve seen men shudder just to see
Me standing at this lathe of mine,
And knew somehow they pitied me,
But I have never made a whine;
For out of all this dirt and dust
And clang and clamor day by day,
Beyond toil s everlasting “must,”
I see my little ones at play.
The hissing steam would drive me mad
If hissing steam was all I heard;
But there s a boy who calls me dad
Who daily keeps my courage spurred;
And there s a little girl who waits
Each night for all that I may bring,
And I m the guardian of their fates,
Which makes this job a wholesome thing.
Beyond the dust and dirt and steam
I see a college where he ll go;
And when I shall fulfill my dream,
More than his father he will know;
And she shall be a woman fair,
Fit for the world to love and trust-
I ll give my land a glorious pair
Out of this place of dirt and dust.
DENIAL
I D LIKE to give em all they ask it hurts to have to
answer, “No,”
And say they cannot have the things they tell me they
are wanting so;
Yet now and then they plead for what I know would
not be good to give
Or what I can t afford to buy, and that s the hardest
hour I live.
They little know or understand how happy I would
be to grant
Their every wish, yet there are times it isn t wise, or
else I can t.
And sometimes, too, I can t explain the reason when
they question why
Their pleadings for some passing joy it is my duty to
deny.
I only know I d like to see them smile forever on life s
way;
I would not have them shed one tear or ever meet a
troubled day.
And I would be content with life and gladly face each
dreary task,
If I could always give to them the little treasures that
they ask.
Denial
From a painting by F. C. Y o H N.
Sometimes we pray to God above and ask for joys
that are denied,
And when He seems to scorn our plea, in bitterness we
turn aside.
And yet the Father of us all, Who sees and knows just
what is best,
May wish, as often here we wish, that He could grant
what we request.