shore, And Mary, my wife and my blessin', God keep her, she stood in the door. And I says ter myself, "I'm a darlin'; A chap with a woman like that, To set here a-grumblin' and snarlin', As sour as a sulky young brat—   I'd better jest keep my helm steady, And not mind the fog that's adrift, For when the Lord gits good and ready, I reckon it's certain ter lift."  

 

     THE BALLADE OF THE DREAM-SHIP 

  My dream-ship's decks are of beaten gold, And her fluttering banners are brave of hue, And her shining sails are of satin fold, And her tall sides gleam where the warm waves woo:     While the flung spray leaps in a diamond dew From her bright bow, dipping its dance of glee; For the skies are fair and the soft winds coo, Where my dream-ship sails o'er the silver sea. My dream-ship's journeys are long and bold, And the ports she visits are far and few; They lie by the rosy shores of old,     'Mid the dear lost scenes my boyhood knew; Or, deep in the future's misty blue, By the purple islands of Arcady,—     And Spain's fair turrets shine full in view, Where my dream-ship sails o'er the silver sea. My dream-ship's cargo is wealth untold, Rare blooms that the old home gardens grew, Sweet pictured faces, and loved songs trolled By lips long laid 'neath the churchyard yew; Or wondrous wishes not yet come true, And fame and glory that is to be;—     Hope holds the wheel all the lone watch through, Where my dream-ship sails o'er the silver sea. 

 

     ENVOY 

  Heart's dearest, what though the storms may brew, And earth's ways darken for you and me? The breeze is fair—let us voyage anew, Where my dream-ship sails o'er the silver sea.  

 

     LIFE'S PATHS 

  It's A wonderful world we're in, my dear, A wonderful world, they say, And blest they be who may wander free Wherever a wish may stray; Who spread their sails to the arctic gales, Or bask in the tropic's bowers, While we must keep to the foot-path steep In this workaday life of ours. For smooth is the road for the few, my dear, And wide are the ways they roam:   Our feet are led where the millions tread, In the worn, old lanes of home. And the years may flow for weal or woe, And the frost may follow the flowers, Our steps are bound to the self-same round In this workaday life of 

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