The Baby's Hand.

In these days of loot and lucre When no chap can get enough, And the man that wins the praises Is the one that gets the stuff; When the fellow with a plenty Of the "long green" at command Is the one that knocks persimmons From the tall trees of the land,— What for me shall such things matter? There's a glory more divine Than the jingle of the guinea with the baby's hand in mine! O, it's nice enough,—the money,— When the weather's fierce and blue And the blankets of its comfort Come and warm the heart of you! But it soon demands the minutes Every hour and day and week, With the gall of angry despot And a most unmeasured cheek; So I'm reconciled to leave it and its tyrannies resign For the ways of love and laughter with the baby's hand in mine! For the jingle of the dollars Soon disturbs the dearest dreams With the thunders of their madness And the rumble of their schemes, Till the heart and brain are weary And the revel of their roar Drive away the mirth and music From the longings evermore! But the skies above are bluest and the heavens all a-shine With the faces of the angels when the baby's hand in mine! Mister Midas, take your millions And the glitter of your gold! Life has treasures where the heart is That have never yet been told! There are sweeter things to cherish, There's song of earth and sky, That are only faintest whispers Of the raptures bye and bye! You have little that I value! Let for me the roses twine With the laughter of the lovers and the baby's hand in mine!