They kep' a-goin', the years and years, Yet still I smiled and smiled,-- For I'd said "Good-by" to my single life, And I now had a wife and child: Mother and son and the father--one,-- Till, last, on her bed of pain, She jes' smiled up, like she always done,-- And I said "Good-by" again. It's _got_ to be, and it's _goin'_ to be! So at least I always try To kind o' say, in a humble way,-- "Well, it's _got_ to be. Good-by!" [Illustration] And then my boy--as he growed to be Almost a man in size,-- Was more than a pride and joy to me, With his mother's smilin' eyes.-- He gimme the slip, when the War broke out, And followed me. And I Never knowed till the first right's end ... I found him, and then, ... "Good-by." It's _got_ to be, and it's _goin'_ to be! So at least I always try To kind o' say, in a patient way, "Well, it's _got_ to be. Good-by!" I have said, "Good-by!--Good-by!--Good-by!" With my very best good will, All through life from the first,--and I Am a cheerful old man still: But it's _got_ to end, and it's _goin'_ to end! And this is the thing I'll do,-- With my last breath I will laugh, O Death, And say "Good-by" to _you_!... It's _got_ to be! And again I say,-- When his old scythe circles high, I'll laugh--of course, in the kindest way,-- As I say "Good-by!--Good-by!" [Illustration] "OUT OF REACH?" You think them "out of reach," your dead? Nay, by my own dead, I deny Your "out of reach."--Be comforted: 'Tis not so far to die. O by their dear remembered smiles And outheld hands and welcoming speech, They wait for us, thousands of miles This side of "out-of-reach." [Illustration] "A BRAVE REFRAIN" When snow is here, and the trees look weird, And the knuckled twigs are gloved with frost; When the breath congeals in the drover's beard, And the old pathway to the barn is lost; When the rooster's crow is sad to hear, And the stamp of the stabled horse is vain, And the tone of the cow-bell grieves the ear-- O then is the time for a brave refrain! When the gears hang stiff on the harness-peg, And the tallow gleams in frozen streaks; And the old hen stands on a lonesome leg, And the pump sounds hoarse and the handle squeaks; When the woodpile lies in a shrouded heap, And the frost is scratched from the window-pane And anxious eyes from the inside peep-- O then is the time for a brave refrain! When the ax-helve warms at the chimney-jamb, And hob-nailed shoes on the hearth below, And the house-cat curls in a slumber calm, And the eight-day clock ticks loud and slow; When the harsh broom-handle jabs the ceil 'Neath the kitchen-loft, and the drowsy brain Sniffs the breath of the morning meal-- O then is the time for a brave refrain! ENVOI When the skillet seethes, and a blubbering hot Tilts the lid of the coffee-pot, And the scent of the buckwheat cake grows plain-- O then is the time for a brave refrain! [Illustration] IN THE EVENING I