A Prisoner's Thanksgiving.

What if the gold of the corn lands Is faded to somber grey?

And what if the down of the thistle Is ripened and scattered away?

There's a crowning golden harvest, There's turkey the heart to cheer,

There's a basket from home with plenty of "pone," Tho' 'tis bathed in a mother's tear.

What 'f our friends are far from us And they know not where we are?

What if those who are dearest Live ever away so far?

There's room for us by th' fireside, Where in childhood days we'd play;

'Tis comfort to think, tho' we stand on the brink, That we will be there some day.

What if our hearts are lonely As we toil in our enemy's hand?

What if our sad looks betray us As we take a true manly stand?

There's a coming golden harvest, There's a time when we all'll meet,

When prison locks and iron bars Will fail to ther pris'n'r keep.

What care we for the pang at heart? 'Twill all be gone some day;

And then tho' our enemies'ld crush us, They'll be scattered far away.

Tho' this is a sad Thanksgiving, A better one's coming our way,

When we'll all be home to share in the "pone" And hear our angeled sister pray.

What if the gold of the corn lands Is faded to somber grey?

And what if the down of the thistle Is ripened and scattered away?

Away to the east in a far off land There's turkey the heart to cheer.

Where the dear ones are partaking And thinking of one that's here;

There's father and mother and sister and brother, all so far away.

There's a blessed time a-coming— The prisoner's Thanksgiving day.