lucky,
  I never claim I played the shot that way.

There are times, despite my blundering behavior,
  When fortune seems to follow at my heels;
Now and then I play supremely in her favor,
  And she lets me pull the rankest sort of steals;
She'll give to me the friendliest assistance,
  I'll jump a ditch at times when I should not,
I'll top the ball and get a lot of distance—
  But I don't claim that's how I played the shot.

I've hooked a ball when just that hook I needed,
  And wondered how I ever turned the trick;
I've thanked my luck for what a friendly tree did,
  Although my fortune made my rival sick;
Sometimes my shots turn out just as I planned 'em,
  The sort of shots I usually play,
But when up to the cup I chance to land 'em,
  I never claim I played 'em just that way.

There's little in my game that will commend me;
  I'm not a shark who shoots the course in par;
I need good fortune often to befriend me;
  I have my faults and know just what they are.
I play golf in a desperate do-or-die way,
  And into traps and trouble oft I stray,
But when by chance the breaks are coming my way,
  I do not claim I played the shots that way.

Contradictin' Joe

Heard of Contradictin' Joe?
Most contrary man I know.
Always sayin', "That's not so."

Nothing's ever said, but he
Steps right up to disagree—
Quarrelsome as he can be.

If you start in to recite
All the details of a fight,
He'll butt in to set you right.

Start a story that is true,
He'll begin correctin' you—
Make you out a liar, too!

Mention time o' year or day,
Makes no difference what you say,
Nothing happened just that way.

Bet you, when his soul takes flight,
An' the angels talk at night,
He'll butt in to set 'em right.

There where none should have complaints
He will be with "no's" and "ain'ts"
Contradictin' all the saints.

The Better Job

If I were running a factory
I'd stick up a sign for all to see;
I'd print it large and I'd nail it high
On every wall that the men walked by;
And I'd have it carry this sentence clear:
"The 'better job' that you want is here!"

It's the common trait of the human race
To pack up and roam from place to place;
Men have done it for ages and do it now;
Seeking to better themselves somehow
They quit their posts and their tools they drop
For a better job in another shop.

It may be I'm wrong, but I hold to this—
That something surely must be amiss
When a man worth while must move away
For the better job with the better pay;
And something is false in our own renown
When men can think of a better town.

So if I were running a factory
I'd stick up this sign for all to see,
Which never an eye in the place could miss:
"There isn't a better town than this!
You need not go wandering, far or near—
The 'better job' that you want is here!"

My Religion

My religion's lovin' God, who made us, one and all,
Who marks, no matter where it be, the humble sparrow's fall;
An' my religion's servin' Him the very best I can
By not despisin' anything He made, especially man!
It's lovin' sky an' earth an' sun an' birds an' flowers an' trees,
But lovin' human beings more than any one of these.

I ain't no hand at preachin' an' I can't expound the creeds;
I fancy every fellow's faith must satisfy his needs
Or he would hunt for something else. An' I can't tell the why
An' wherefore of the doctrines deep—and what's more I don't try.
I reckon when this life is done and we can know His plan,
God won't be hard on anyone who's tried to be a man.

My religion doesn't hinge on some one rite or word;
I hold that any honest prayer a mortal makes is heard;
To love a church is well enough, but some get cold with pride
An' quite forget their fellowmen for whom the Saviour died;
I fancy he best worships God, when all is said an' done,
Who tries to be, from day to day, a friend to everyone.

If God can mark the sparrow's fall, I don't believe He'll fail
To notice us an' how we act when doubts an' fears assail;
I think He'll hold what's in our hearts above what's in our creeds,
An' judge all our religion here by our recorded deeds;
An' since man is God's greatest work since life on earth began,
He'll get to Heaven, I believe, who helps his fellowman.

What I Call Living

The miser thinks he's living when he's hoarding up his gold;
The soldier calls it living when he's doing something bold;
The sailor thinks it living to be tossed upon the sea,
And upon this vital subject no two of us agree.
But I hold to the opinion, as I walk my way along,
That living's made of laughter and good-fellowship and song.

I wouldn't call it living always to be seeking gold,
To bank all the present gladness for the days when I'll be old.
I wouldn't call it living to spend all my strength for fame,
And forego the many pleasures which to-day are mine to claim.
I wouldn't for the splendor of the world set out to roam,
And forsake my laughing children and the peace I know at home.
Oh, the thing that I call living isn't gold or fame at all!

It's good-fellowship and sunshine, and it's roses by the wall;
It's evenings glad with music and a hearth fire that's ablaze,
And the joys which come to mortals in a thousand different ways.
It is laughter and contentment and the struggle for a goal;
It is everything that's needful in the shaping of a soul.

If This Were All

If this were all of life we'll know,
  If this brief space of breath
Were all there is to human toil,
  If death were really death,
And never should the soul arise
  A finer world to see,
How foolish would our struggles seem,
  How grim the earth would be!

If living were the whole of life,
  To end in seventy years,
How pitiful its joys would seem!
  How idle all its tears!
There'd be no faith to keep us true,
  No hope to keep us strong,
And only fools would cherish dreams—
  No smile would last for long.

How purposeless the strife would be
  If there were nothing more,
If there were not a plan to serve,
  An end to struggle for!
No reason for a mortal's birth
  Except to have him die—
How silly all the goals would seem
  For which men bravely try.

There must be something after death;
  Behind the toil of man
There must exist a God divine
  Who's working out a plan;
And this brief journey that we know
  As life must really be
The gateway to a finer world
  That some day we shall see.

A Christmas Carol

God