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There were bevies of birds and swarms of bees; There were cities with temples and towers, and these All pictured in silver sheen!

But he did one thing that was hardly fair;
He peep'd in the cupboard, and finding there
That all had forgotten for him to prepare-

"Now, just to set them a thinking,
I'll bite this basket of fruit," said he,
"This costly pitcher I'll burst in three,
And the glass of water they've left for me
Shalltchick!' to tell them I'm drinking."


Daily Work.

WHO lags from dread of daily work,
And his appointed task would shirk,
Commits a folly and a crime;
A soulless slave-

A paltry knave—

A clog upon the wheels of time.
With work to do, and store of health,
The man's unworthy to be free,
Who will not give,

That he may live,

His daily toil for daily fee.

No! let us work! We only ask
Reward proportion'd to our task;
We have no quarrel with the great
No feud with rank-

With mill or bank

No envy of a lord's estate,
If we can earn sufficient store

To satisfy our daily need,
And can retain

For age and pain,

A fraction; we are rich indeed.

No dread of toil have we or ours,
We know our worth, and weigh our powers:
The more we work the more we win ;

Success to trade!

Success to spade!

And to the corn that's coming in!

And joy to him who o'er his task
Remembers toil is nature's plan;
Who, working, thinks,

And never sinks

His independence as a MAN!

Who only asks for humblest wealth,
Enough for competence and health;
And leisure when his work is done
To read his book,

By chimney nook,

Or stroll at setting of the sun; Who toils as every man should toil,

For fair reward, erect and free:

These are the men

The best of men

These are the men we mean to be.


He that Loves a Rosy Cheek.

He that loves a rosy cheek,
Or a coral lip admires,
Or from star-like eyes doth seek
Fuel to maintain its fires;
As old Time makes these decay,
So his flames must waste away.

But a smooth and stedfast mind,
Gentle thoughts and calm desires,
Hearts with equal love combin'd,
Kindle never-dying fires;
Where these are not, I despise
Lovely cheeks, or lips, or eyes.


Sir Marmaduke.

SIR MARMADUKE was a hearty knight;
Good man! old man!

He's painted standing bolt upright,

With his hose roll'd over his knee;

His periwig's as white as chalk,
And on his fist he holds a hawk,
And he looks like the head
Of an ancient family.

His dining-room was long and wide;
Good man! old man!

His spaniels lay by the fireside ;-
And in other parts d'ye see
Cross bows, tobacco pipes, old hats,
A saddle, his wife, and a litter of cats!
And he look'd like the head

Of an ancient family.

He never turn'd the poor from the gate;
Good man! old man!

But was always ready to break the pate
Of his country's enemy.

What knight could do a better thing

Than serve the poor, and fight for his king?

And so may every head
Of an ancient family.


The Barley-mowers' Zong.

BARLEY-MOWERS, here we stand,
One, two, three, a steady band;
True of heart, and strong of limb,
Ready in our harvest trim;

All a-row with spirits blithe,

Now we whet the bended scythe,

Rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink-a-tink!

Side by side, now bending low, Down the swaths of barley go, Stroke by stroke, as true's the chime Of the bells, we keep in time; Then we whet the ringing scythe, Standing 'mong the barley lithe, Rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink-a-tink!

Barley-mowers must be true, Keeping still the end in view, One with all, and all with one, Working on till set of sun, Bending all with spirits blithe, Whetting all at once the scythe, Rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink-a-tink!

Day and night, and night and day, Time, the mower, will not stay; We may hear him in our path By the falling barley swath; While we sing with voices blithe, We may hear his ringing scythe," Rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink-a-tink!

Time, the mower, cuts down all,
High and low, and great and small
Learn we then for him to grow
Ready, like the field we mow,
Like the bending barley lithe,

Ready for the whetted scythe,

Rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink-a-tink!


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