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He never had time to play with the boys,
To romp in the meadows or loll in the shade,
He never had time to share in the joys
Or the pleasures of youth--he was always afraid
That while he was resting some one might succeed
In passing by him--and he wanted to climb;
The call of the summer he never would heed--
He never had time.


He never had time in the evenings to play
With the baby that begged for a ride on his knee;
"When my fortune is made, little one," he would say,
"Ah, then I will frolic and gambol with thee."
He never had time through the gardens to stroll,
To glory in beauties of nature sublime;
To sit by the stream with a line and a pole--
He never had time.


Oh, the years slipped by and the flowers came and went,
The beauties of Spring and of Summer and Fall;
All the long, weary hours at his labors he spent,
The changing of seasons he marked not at all.
The babe at his knee unto manhood had grown
Without ever hearing one nursery rhyme,
The joy of a father he never had known--
He never had time.


And now he is dead! And his mourners are few,
And the flowers they place at his grave seem to say:
"Here is the man that no one of us knew,
He trampled us down if we stood in his way."
Oh, think how he'll seem to the good God above,
Although he has never committed a crime,
Baring his soul that is barren of love,
Since he never had time.