O, Thou that doth all things devise

      And fashon fer the best,

      He'p us who sees with mortul eyes

      To overlook the rest.

      They's times, of course, we grope in doubt,

      And in afflictions sore;

      So knock the louder, Lord, without,

      And we'll unlock the door.

      Make us to feel, when times looks bad

      And tears in pitty melts,

      Thou wast the only he'p we had

      When they was nothin' else.

      Death comes alike to ev'ry man

      That ever was borned on earth;

      Then let us do the best we can

      To live fer all life's wurth.

      Ef storms and tempusts dred to see

      Makes black the heavens ore,

      They done the same in Galilee

      Two thousand years before.

      But after all, the golden sun

      Poured out its floods on them

      That watched and waited fer the One

      Then borned in Bethlyham.

      Also, the star of holy writ

      Made noonday of the night,

      Whilse other stars that looked at it

      Was envious with delight.

      The sages then in wurship bowed,

      From ev'ry clime so fare;

      O, sinner, think of that glad crowd

      That congergated thare!

      They was content to fall in ranks

      With One that knowed the way

      From good old Jurden's stormy banks

      Clean up to Jedgmunt Day.

      No matter, then, how all is mixed

      In our near-sighted eyes,

      All things is fer the best, and fixed

      Out straight in Paradise.

      Then take things as God sends 'em here,

      And, ef we live er die,

      Be more and more contenteder,

      Without a-astin' why.

      O, Thou that doth all things devise

      And fashon fer the best,

      He'p us who sees with mortul eyes

      To overlook the rest.

      Old wortermelon time is a-comin' round again,

      And they ain't no man a-livin' any tickleder'n me,

      Fer the way I hanker after wortermelons is a sin —

      Which is the why and wharefore, as you can plainly see.

      Oh! it's in the sandy soil wortermelons does the best,

      And it's thare they'll lay and waller in the sunshine and the dew

      Tel they wear all the green streaks clean off of theyr breast;

      And you bet I ain't a-findin' any fault with them; air you?

      They ain't no better thing in the vegetable line;

      And they don't need much 'tendin', as ev'ry farmer knows;

      And when theyr ripe and ready fer to pluck from the vine,

      I want to say to you theyr the best fruit that grows.

      It's some likes the yeller-core, and some likes the red.

      And it's some says "The Little Californy" is the best;

      But the sweetest slice of all I ever wedged in my head,

      Is the old "Edingburg Mounting-sprout," of the west.

      You don't want no punkins nigh your wortermelon vines —

      'Cause, some-way-another, they'll spile your melons, shore; —

      I've seed 'em taste like punkins, from the core to the rines,

      Which may be a fact you have heerd of before.

      But your melons that's raised right and 'tended to with care,

      You can walk around amongst 'em with a parent's pride and joy,

      And thump 'em on the heads with as fatherly a air

      As ef each one of them was your little girl er boy.

      I joy in my hart jest to hear that rippin' sound

      When you split one down the back and jolt the halves in two,

      And the friends you love the best is gethered all around —

      And you says unto your sweethart, "Oh, here's the core fer you!"

      And I like to slice 'em up in big pieces fer 'em all,

      Espeshally the childern, and watch theyr high delight

      As one by one the rines with theyr pink notches falls,

      And they holler fer some more, with unquenched appetite.

      Boys takes to it natchurl, and I like to see 'em eat —

      A slice of wortermelon's like a frenchharp in theyr hands,

      And when they "saw" it through theyr mouth sich music can't be beat —

      'Cause it's music both the sperit and the stummick