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What do we know—and what do we care—for Time, and his silver scythe, Since there is always time to spare, so long as a man's alive?— The world may come, and the world may go, and the world may whistle by, But the pace of the ox is steady and slow, and life is a lullaby.

What do we know of the city's scorn, the hum of a world amaze, Hot-foot haste, and the fevered dawn, and forgotten yesterdays?— For men may strain, and women may strive in busier lands to-day,

But the pace of the ox is the pace to thrive in the land of Veldt and Vlei.

The daylight breaks in the Eastern sky, and sinks to sleep in the West; Thus it is that our days go by, bringing their meed of rest. The Future's hidden behind the veil, and the Past—is still the past, And the pace of the ox is the sliding scale that measures our work at last.