But I Have Learned A

The Editor Sat In His Sanctum, His Countenance Furrowed With Care, His Mind At The Bottom Of Business, His Feet At The Top Of A Chair, His Chair-arm An Elbow Supporting, His Right Hand Upholding His Head, His Eyes On His Dusty Old Table, With Different Documents Spread.

Over All Our Happy Country - Over All Our Nation Spread, Is A Band Of Noble Heroes - Is Our Army Of The Dead.

Thanksgiving-day, I Fear, If One The Solemn Truth Must Touch, Is Celebrated, Not So Much To Thank The Lord For Blessing O'er, As For The Sake Of Getting More!

Over The Hill To The Poor-house I'm Trudgin' My Weary Way.

And That Was The Way The Deuce Was To Pay As It Always Is, At The Close Of The Day That Gave Us