FOR every man who works there are
A dozen who will let him;
They’ll smiling bask within the shade
The while his duties fret him.
And when his arduous tasks are done,
From out the idle ranks
There promptly steps a grateful one
To move a vote of thanks.
Where more than three foregathered are
In meeting, club or lodge,
Some cheerful soul must do the work
That all the others dodge.
Some one for all must toil and plan,
Some one the money banks,
For which the shirkers to a man
Will move a vote of thanks.
The many spend their hours in ease,
While busy are the few;
The glory of the game they want
But not its work to do.
Untroubled here on earth they live,
The strength that’s in their shanks
They save, to those who toil, to give
A rising vote of thanks.
Some day when all the work is done
And rest has settled down,
Perhaps the weary toiler then
Will wear a golden crown.
Upon his breast may medals flash,
And at the Heavenly banks
Perhaps they’ll even let him cash
Those rising votes of thanks.
