Death comes alike to ev'ry man That ever was borned on earth; Then let us do the best we can To live fer all life's wurth. Ef storms and tempusts dred to see Makes black the heavens ore, They done the same in Galilee Two thousand years before. But after all, the golden sun Poured out its floods on them That watched and waited fer the One Then borned in Bethlyham. Also, the star of holy writ Made noonday of the night, Whilse other stars that looked at it Was envious with delight. The sages then in wurship bowed, From ev'ry clime so fare; O, sinner, think of that glad crowd That congergated thare! They was content to fall in ranks With One that knowed the way From good old Jurden's stormy banks Clean up to Jedgmunt Day. No matter, then, how all is mixed In our near-sighted eyes, All things is fer the best, and fixed Out straight in Paradise. Then take things as God sends 'em here, And, ef we live er die, Be more and more contenteder, Without a-astin' why. O, Thou that doth all things devise And fashon fer the best, He'p us who sees with mortul eyes To overlook the rest. WORTERMELON TIME Old wortermelon time is a-comin' round again, And they ain't no man a-livin' any tickleder'n me, Fer the way I hanker after wortermelons is a sin-- Which is the why and wharefore, as you can plainly see. Oh! it's in the sandy soil wortermelons does the best, And it's thare they'll lay and waller in the sunshine and the dew Tel they wear all the green streaks clean off of theyr breast; And you bet I ain't a-findin' any fault with them; air you? They ain't no better thing in the vegetable line; And they don't need much 'tendin', as ev'ry farmer knows; And when theyr ripe and ready fer to pluck from the vine, I want to say to you theyr the best fruit that grows. It's some likes the yeller-core, and some likes the red. And it's some says "The Little Californy" is the best; But the sweetest slice of all I ever wedged in my head, Is the old "Edingburg Mounting-sprout," of the west. You don't want no punkins nigh your wortermelon vines-- 'Cause, some-way-another, they'll spile your melons, shore;-- I've seed 'em taste like punkins, from the core to the rines, Which may be a fact you have heerd of before. But your melons that's raised right and 'tended to with care, You can walk around amongst 'em with a parent's pride and joy, And thump 'em on the heads with as fatherly a air As ef each one of them was your little girl er boy.