| Show THE CRY OF THE John Boyle I am tired of planning and toiling In the crowded hives of men Heart-weary of building and And spoiling and building And I long for the dear old Where I dreamed my youth For a dreamer lives And a toiler dies in a 1 I am sick of the showy Of a life that half a Of the faces lined with scheming 1 In the throng that hurries From the sleepless thought's I would go where the children For a dreamer lives And a thinker dies in a i I can feel no but pity For the burdens the rich endure There is nothing sweet in the city But the patient lives of the the little too And the child-mind choked with The daughter's heart grown And the fathers' heart that from the street's rude From trophies of mart and I would fly to the woods' low rustle And the meadow's kindly Let me dream as of old by the And be loved for the dream For a dreamer lives And a toiler dies in a |
