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Old Ed

 Our cowman, old Ed, hadn't much in his head,
And lots of folks though him a witling;
But he wasn't a fool, for he always kept cool,
And his sole recreation was whittling.
When I'd spill him my woes (ifantile, I suppose), He'd harken and whittle and whittle; then when I had done, turn his quid and say: "Son, Ye're a-drownin' yerself in yer spittle.
" He's gone to his grave, but the counsel he gave I've proved in predicaments trying; When I got in a stew, feeling ever so blue, My failures and faults magnifying, I'd think of old Ed as he sniffed and he said: "Shaw! them things don't mater a tittle.
Ye darned little cuss, why make such a full? Ye're a-drownin' yerself in yer spittle.
" When you're tangled with care till you're up in the air, And worry and fear have you quaking, When each tiny trouble seems bigger than double, Till mountains of mole-hills you're making: Go easy, my friend, things click in the end, But maybe 'twill help you a little, If you take Ed's advise (though it may not sound nice): Ye're a-drownin' yerself in yer spittle.
"

Poem by Robert William Service
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Book: Reflection on the Important Things