An’ the clouds hang dark an’ heavy, an’ won’t let the sunshine through,
It’s a great thing, O, my brethren, for a feller just to lay
His hand upon your shoulder in a friendly sort o’ way!
It makes a man feel curious; it makes the teardrops start,
An’ you sort o’ feel a flutter in the region of the heart:
You can look up and meet his eyes: you don’t know what to say
When his hand is on your shoulder in a friendly sort o’ way.
Oh, the world’s a curious compound, with its honey and its gall,
With its care and bitter crosses, but a good worl’ after all;
An’ a good God must have made it—leastways, that is what I say,