By F. A. ROBERTSON
We never can tell, and we never will know,
When it will rain, sunshine or snow;
We never can tell, from the cradle to the grave,
Whether we are rich or only a slave;
Whether we’ll ride in automobiles,
Work in the shop or plow in the fields;
Perhaps go to bed in vigor and wealth
And awake in the morning broken in health.
So don’t let pride your judgment beguile,