Thanksgiving
Thanksgiving has come with its glory,
All strewn o'er with russet-brown leaves;
It brings up the past, and the story
Of they who have garnered their sheaves.
Not one hut has something to thank for,
Not a heart hut should thankfully pray,
And bless Him for gifts from His bountiful store,
He has given us, day after day.
Tis a beautiful, olden-time custom,
And hallowed because of the time
Brave forefathers fought for our freedom,
And mothers toiled grandly sublime.
There were years of terrible waiting,
And locks that grew gray with suspense;
With matrons and maidens relating
The actions of war, so intense.
There were days of hunger and fasting,
And nights full of wearisome pain:
There were hours that seemed everlasting,
And moments that dragged by in vain.
Cheeks paled with horror and wasting,
Bright eyes grew heavy with tears,
And red lips grew wan with the tasting
The bitterness of death, in those years.
All strewn o'er with russet-brown leaves;
It brings up the past, and the story
Of they who have garnered their sheaves.
Not one hut has something to thank for,
Not a heart hut should thankfully pray,
And bless Him for gifts from His bountiful store,
He has given us, day after day.
Tis a beautiful, olden-time custom,
And hallowed because of the time
Brave forefathers fought for our freedom,
And mothers toiled grandly sublime.
There were years of terrible waiting,
And locks that grew gray with suspense;
With matrons and maidens relating
The actions of war, so intense.
There were days of hunger and fasting,
And nights full of wearisome pain:
There were hours that seemed everlasting,
And moments that dragged by in vain.
Cheeks paled with horror and wasting,
Bright eyes grew heavy with tears,
And red lips grew wan with the tasting
The bitterness of death, in those years.
—33—
