'Twas a dangerous cliff, as they freely confessed, Though to walk near its crest was so pleasant; But over its terrible edge there had slipped A duke and full many a peasant. So the people said something would have to be done, But their projects did not at all tally; Some said, "Put a fence around the edge of the cliff," Some, "An ambulance down in the valley."
But the cry for the ambulance carried the day, For it spread through the neighboring city; A fence may be useful or not, it is true, But each heart became brimful of pity For those who slipped over that dangerous cliff; And the dwellers in highway and alley Gave pounds or gave pence, not to put up a fence, But an ambulance down in the valley.
Then an old sage remarked: "It's a marvel to me That people give far more attention To repairing results than to stopping the cause, When they'd much better aim at prevention. Let us stop at its source all this mischief," cried he, "Come, neighbors and friends, let us rally; If the cliff we will fence we might almost dispense With the ambulance down in the valley."
"Oh, he's a fanatic," the others rejoined, "Dispense with the ambulance? Never! He'd dispense with all charities, too, if he could; No! No! We'll support them forever. Aren't we picking up folks just as fast as they fall? And shall this man dictate to us? Shall he? Why should people of sense stop to put up a fence, While the ambulance works in the valley?"
But a sensible few, who are practical too, Will not bear with such nonsense much longer; They believe that prevention is better than cure, And thier party will soon be the stronger. Encourage them then, with your purse, voice, and pen, And while other philanthropists dally, They will scorn all pretense and put up a stout fence On the cliff that hangs over the valley.
Better guide well the young than reclaim them when old, For the voice of true wisdom is calling, "To rescue the fallen is good, but 'tis best To prevent other people from falling." Better close up the source of temptation and crime Than deliver from dungeon or galley; Better put a strong fence round the top of the cliff Than an ambulance down in the valley.
'Twas battered and scarred, and the auctioneer Thought it scarcely worth his while To waste much time on the old violin, But held it up with a smile: "What am I bidden, good folks," he cried, "Who'll start the bidding for me?" "A dollar, a dollar"; then, "Two!" "Only two? Two dollars, and who'll make it three? Three dollars, once, three dollars, twice; Going for three---" But no, From the room, far back, a gray-haired man Came forward and picked up the bow; Then, wiping the dust from the old violin, And tightening the loose strings, He played a melody pure and sweet As a caroling angel sings.
The music ceased, and the auctioneer, With a voice that was quiet and low, Said: "What am I bid for the old violin?" And he held it up with the bow. "A thousand dollars, and who'll make it two? Two thousand! And who'll make it three? Three thousand, once, three thousand, twice, And going, and gone," said he. The people cheered, but some of them cried, "We do not quite understand What changed its worth." Swift came the reply: The touch of a master's hand."
And many a man with life out of tune, And battered and scarred with sin, Is auctioned cheap to the thoughtless crowd, Much like the old violin. A "mess of pottage," a glass of wine; A game-and he travels on. He is "going" once, and "going" twice, He's "going" and almost "gone." But the Master comes, and the foolish crowd Never can quite understand The worth of a soul and the change that's wrought By the touch of the Master's hand.
