Hello, ole man, you ‘re a-gittin’ gray,
  An’ it beats ole Ned to see the way
  ‘At the crow’s feet’s a-getherin’ aroun’ yore eyes;
  Tho’ it ought n’t to cause me no su’prise,
  Fur there ’s many a sun ’at you ’ve seen rise
  An’ many a one you ’ve seen go down
  Sence yore step was light an’ yore hair was brown,
  An’ storms an’ snows have had their way—­
  Hello, ole man, you ‘re a-gittin’ gray.

  Hello, ole man, you ‘re a-gittin’ gray,
  An’ the youthful pranks ’at you used to play
  Are dreams of a far past long ago
  That lie in a heart where the fires burn low—­
  That has lost the flame though it kept the glow,
  An’ spite of drivin’ snow an’ storm,
  Beats bravely on forever warm. 
  December holds the place of May—­
  Hello, ole man, you ‘re a-gittin’ gray.

  Hello, ole man, you ‘re a-gittin’ gray—­
  Who cares what the carpin’ youngsters say? 
  For, after all, when the tale is told,
  Love proves if a man is young or old! 
  Old age can’t make the heart grow cold
  When it does the will of an honest mind;
  When it beats with love fur all mankind;
  Then the night but leads to a fairer day—­
  Hello, ole man, you ‘re a-gittin’ gray!

TO THE MEMORY OF MARY YOUNG

  God has his plans, and what if we
  With our sight be too blind to see
  Their full fruition; cannot he,
  Who made it, solve the mystery? 
  One whom we loved has fall’n asleep,
  Not died; although her calm be deep,
  Some new, unknown, and strange surprise
  In Heaven holds enrapt her eyes.

  And can you blame her that her gaze
  Is turned away from earthly ways,
  When to her eyes God’s light and love
  Have giv’n the view of things above? 
  A gentle spirit sweetly good,
  The pearl of precious womanhood;
  Who heard the voice of duty clear,
  And found her mission soon and near.

  She loved all nature, flowers fair,
  The warmth of sun, the kiss of air,
  The birds that filled the sky with song,
  The stream that laughed its way along. 
  Her home to her was shrine and throne,
  But one love held her not alone;
  She sought out poverty and grief,
  Who touched her robe and found relief.

  So sped she in her Master’s work,
  Too busy and too brave to shirk,
  When through the silence, dusk and dim,
  God called her and she fled to him. 
  We wonder at the early call,
  And tears of sorrow can but fall
  For her o’er whom we spread the pall;
  But faith, sweet faith, is over all.

  The house is dust, the voice is dumb,
  But through undying years to come,
  The spark that glowed within her soul
  Shall light our footsteps to the goal. 
  She went her way; but oh, she trod
  The path that led her straight to God. 
  Such lives as this put death to scorn;
  They lose our day to find God’s morn.