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In a very humble cot, In a rather quiet spot, In the suds and in the soap, Worked a woman full of hope; Working, singing, all alone, In a sort of undertone "With the Savior for a friend, He will keep me to the end." Sometimes happening, along, I had heard the semi-song, And I often used to smile, More in sympathy than guile; But I never said a word In regard to what I heard, As she sang about her friend Who would keep her to the end. Not in sorrow nor in glee Working all day long was she, As her children, three or four, Played around her on the floor; But in monotones the song She was humming all day long: "With the Savior for a friend, He will keep me to the end." It 's a song I do not sing, For I scarce believe a thing Of the stories that are told Of the miracles of old; But I know that her belief Is the anodyne of grief, And will always be a friend That will keep her to the end. Just a trifle lonesome she, Just as poor as poor could be; But her spirits always rose, Like the bubbles in the clothes, And, though widowed and alone, Cheered me with the monotone, Of a Savior and a friend Who would keep her to the end. I have seen her rub and scrub, On the washboard in the tub, While the baby, sopped in suds, Rolled and tumbled in the duds; Or was paddling in the pools, With old scissors stuck in spools; She still humming of her friend Who would keep her to the end. Human hopes and human creeds Have their root in human needs; And I should not wish to strip From that washerwoman's lip Any song that she can sing, Any hope that songs can bring; For the woman has a friend Who will keep her to the end. |
