Just Folks

To the Humble

          If all the flowers were roses,
            If never daisies grew,
          If no old-fashioned posies
            Drank in the morning dew,
          Then man might have some reason
            To whimper and complain,
          And speak these words of treason,
            That all our toil is vain.

          If all the stars were Saturns
            That twinkle in the night,
          Of equal size and patterns,
            And equally as bright,
          Then men in humble places,
            With humble work to do,
          With frowns upon their faces
            Might trudge their journey through.

          But humble stars and posies
            Still do their best, although
          They're planets not, nor roses,
            To cheer the world below.
          And those old-fashioned daisies
            Delight the soul of man;
          They're here, and this their praise is:
            They work the Master's plan.

          Though humble be your labor,
            And modest be your sphere,
          Come, envy not your neighbor
            Whose light shines brighter here.
          Does God forget the daisies
            Because the roses bloom?
          Shall you not win His praises
            By toiling at your loom?

          Have you, the toiler humble,
            Just reason to complain,
          To shirk your task and grumble
            And think that it is vain
          Because you see a brother
            With greater work to do?
          No fame of his can smother
            The merit that's in you.