Don’t give a prize For ’tis not wise, So say our honest Christian folk; But men will fight With all their might, To make their fellows wear the yoke. Some men are dull And count for null, And some are bright as glist’ning gold; Say what you will The truth is still, We’re not all cast in the same mold. Some take their time While others climb, And struggle with their might and main, And when they win, Think it no sin, To wear the crown they fought to gain. ’Tis luck, they say, And fools can play, And nature grows a heavy crop; Give me the game, I’ll bear the name, And laugh when fools come out on top. A WALK BY MOONLIGHT. The moon is sweetly shining, And the stars are entwining, A wreath for my dear Annie, Who is all the world to me. While all the world lies dreaming, My heart with joy is beaming, I’m happy with my Annie, Who is all the world to me. All nature now is sleeping, No living thing is creeping, I’m all alone with Annie, Who is all the world to me. The silent trees look neater, The flowers, too, are sweeter, But naught’s so sweet as Annie, Who is all the world to me. My head with thought is turning, My heart with love is burning, I’m so happy with Annie, Who is all the world to me. Sweet nature is insisting, I must not be resisting, I’ll ask the hand of Annie, Who is all the world to me. THE QUESTION. “O say, my lovely creature, Thou brightest work of nature, Do you love him, dear Annie, Who is all the world to thee?” THE ANSWER. “Do you love the sweet Savior? Do you seek his kind favor? Do you love your dear Annie, Who is all the world to thee? “Will you live with the wisdom, That rules the holy kingdom, And please the heart of Annie, Who is all the world to thee? “If you’ll shun the evil tempter, With true love for a helper, Accept the hand of Annie, Who is all the world to thee.” THE REPLY. “I’ll pious be and holy, I’ll do my duty truly, I’ll earn the hand of Annie, Who is all the world to me. “I’ll love thee as no other, But our Heavenly Father, I’ll live and die for Annie, Who is all the world to me.” THE PAINTER. Written on a postal card and mailed to a lady, as a token of my appreciation of her skill as a painter. Happy is he who can catch a fine thought, And fit it to prose, or dress it in rhyme, But happier she whose fingers are taught To paint sweet nature in colors sublime.