In just a-loitering back along with those who can’t keep up.
One needn’t think the only men God ever made are those
Who wear the finest linen and the latest cut in clothes,—
I find patriotism, honor, and fidelity to truth,
In the man whose outward bearing often is the most uncouth.
In the weather-beaten cottage where the eaves ’most touch the door,
Whose shingles are quite hidden with the moss that’s gathered o’er,
There is still the old-time altar, where duly morn and night,
The inmates bow and ask the Lord to guide their steps aright.
The gentlest words are spoken when the heart is sad with woe,