Then crying's no cure for our troubles;
Long faces do no good at all;
If the best of our hopes turn out bubbles,
Laugh, laugh, and they *re nothing at all,
'Tis folly to give way to sadness,
Or in sighs to be wasting our breath,
So if woes interfere with our gladness,
Trot on boys, and laugh them to death.
Trot on then, I charge you, and gaily,
Whether heavy or light be your load;
Trot on, for this truth we learn daily,
That cheerfulness shortens the road.
Chorus—Trot on, trot on, trot on, &c.
Impromptu.
On the death of a mother and infant, the mother's death preceding that op the child but a very short time.
Yea, both are departed, the mother and child;
See, their friends broken-hearted, their anguish is wild;
Who shall tell but the parent hath stay'd on the road
To guide her loved son to his future abode?
Hark! angels with ecstasy welcome the twain,
Who are freed (and for ever) from sorrow and pain.
Then cease your fond grieving, wipe the tear from each eye,
And take comfort, believing their end was pure joy.
