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Show I'HKHK VI' LADDIE When I was little, I used to hear My father singing un old-time song. His oar was good and his voice was oloar, And he sang at his work the whole day long. Much have I lost and I can't recall A tithe of the tunes he sang so well; But this, the oldest and best of all, WiJl ring forever in memory's cell: "Cheer up, laddie, and don't you fret, You're worth a million of dead men yet!" I well remember when times were bad He sang the same as when times were good ; He heartened my mother when she was sad. And faced the days as a brave man should. In fair or foul, he was still the same, Let things go right or let things go wrong; And often the grumblers blushed for shame To hear him singing this quaint old song: "Cheer up, laddie, and don't you fret, You're worth a million of dead men yet!" Our childish troubles to him were brought, Schoolroom squabble and playtime row; Many a fight was left unfought Because of the sunshine under his brow. And, when the big temptations came. He was the man that could understand under-stand ; He didn't scold, and he didn't blame, But he sang to the boy as he took his hand. "Cheer up, laddie and don't you fret. You're a million of dead men yet!" Denis A. McCarty, LL. D. |