To the Humble
 

If all the flowers were roses,
    If never daisies grew,
If no old-fashioned posies
    Drank in the morning dew,
Then man might have some reason
    To whimper and complain,
And speak these words of treason,
    That all our toil is vain.

If all the stars were Saturns
    That twinkle in the night,
Of equal size and patterns,
    And equally as bright,
Then men in humble places,
    With humble work to do,
With frowns upon their faces
    Might trudge their journey through.

But humble stars and posies
    Still do their best, although
They're planets not, nor roses,
    To cheer the world below.
And those old-fashioned daisies
    Delight the soul of man;
They're here, and this their praise is:
    They work the Master's plan.

Though humble be your labor,
    And modest be your sphere,
Come, envy not your neighbor
    Whose light shines brighter here.
Does God forget the daisies
    Because the roses bloom?
Shall you not win His praises
    By toiling at your loom?

Have you, the toiler humble,
    Just reason to complain,
To shirk your task and grumble
    And think that it is vain
Because you see a brother
    With greater work to do?
No fame of his can smother
    The merit that's in you.