When a man ain't got a cent an' he's feelin' kind o' blue, An' the clouds hang dark and heavy an' won't let the sunshine through, It's a grand thing, O my brethren, for a feller just to lay His hand upon your shoulder in a friendly sort o' way!
It makes a man feel curious; it makes the tear drops start, An' you sort o' feel a flutter in the region o' your heart. You can't look up and meet his eyes; you don't know what to say, When his hand is on your shoulder in a friendly sort o' way.
Oh, the world's a curious compound, with its honey and its gall, With its cares and bitter crosses; but a good world after all, An' a good God must have made it—leastways that's what I say When a hand rests on your shoulder in a friendly sort o' way.
