When Folks Find I Ain't Afeard To

A Bird In The Hand Is A Certainty, But A Bird In The Bush May Sing.

But Still When The Mists Of Doubt Prevail, And We Lie Becalmed By The Shores Of Age, We Hear From The Misty Troubled Shore The Voce Of Children Gone Before. Drawing The Soul To Its Anchorage.

Howbeit, Though No Scholar, I Am Not One Of Those Who Misuse The English Speech, And, Being Foolishly Led By The Hasty Custom Of Scriveners And Printers To Write The Letters "t" And "h" Joined Together, Which Resembleth A "y," Do Incontinently Jump To The Conclusion The The Is Pronounced "ye,"--the Like Of Which I Never Heard In All England.

When Folks Find I Ain't Afeard To Speak My Mind On Their Affairs, They Kinder Guess I'm Tellin' The Truth About My Own.

The Delicate Thought, That Cannot Find Expression, For Ruder Speech Too Fair, That, Like Thy Petals, Trembles In Possession, And Scatters On The Air.