Classic Poem

From the time of our old Revolution,
When we threw off the yoke of the King,
Has descended this phrase to remember —
To remember, to say, and to sing;
'Tis a phrase that is full of a lesson;
It can comfort and warm like a fire;
It can cheer us when days are the darkest:
"That things are no worse, O my sire!"

'Twas King George's prime minister said it,
To the King, who had questioned, in heat,
What he meant by appointing Thanksgiving
In such days of ill-luck and defeat.
"What's the cause of your day of Thanksgiving?
Tell me, pray," cried the King in his ire.
Said the minister, "This is the reason —
That things are no worse, O my sire!"

There was nothing come down, in the story,
Of the answer returned by the King;
But I think on his throne he sat silent,
And confessed it a sensible thing;
For there's never a burden so heavy
That it might not be heavier still;
There is never so bitter a sorrow
That the cup could not fuller fill.

And what of care and of sadness
Our life and our duties may bring,
There's always the cause for thanksgiving
Which the minister told to the King.
'Tis a lesson to sing and to remember;
It can comfort and warm like a fire,
Can cheer us when days are the darkest —
"That things are no worse, O my sire!"

'Tis a bush that the birds will never leave;
They sing in it all day long;
But sweetest of all on Christmas eve
Is to hear the robins' song.
'Tis the merriest sound upon earth and sea;
For it comes from our own Aunt Mary's tree.

So, of all that grow by the king's highway,
I love that tree the best;
'Tis a bower for the birds upon Christmas day,
The bush of the bleeding breast.
O! the holly with her drops of blood for me;
For that is our sweet Aunt Mary's tree.