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The infant river leapeth free,

Amid the bracken tall,

And cries, "FOR EVER there is ONE

Who reigneth over all;

And unto Him, as unto me,

Thou'rt welcome to partake
His gift of light, his gift of air,

O'er mountain, glen, and lake.
Our Father loves us, want-worn man!

And know thou this from me:

The pride that makes thy pain his couch,

May wake to envy thee.

Hard, hard to bear are want and toil,

As thy worn features tell;

But wealth is armed with fortitude,
And bears thy sufferings well."

SONG.

NOR alehouse scores, nor alehouse broils

Turn my good woman pale;

For in my pantry I've a keg

Of home-brewed ale.

The devil keeps a newspaper

Where tavern-wranglers rail,

Because it tempts his doomed and lost
To drink bad ale.

But I read news at second-hand,

Nor find it flat and stale;

While Hume's or Hindley's health I drink In home-brew'd ale.

My boys and girls delight to see

My friends and me regale,

While Nancy, curtsying, deigns to sip
Our home-brew'd ale;

And when the widow'd pauper comes,
To tell her monthly tale,

I sometimes cheer her with a drop
Of home-brew'd ale;

It tells her heart of better days,

Ere she grew thin and pale,

When James, before the banker fail'd,
Drank home-brew'd ale.

I'll melt no money in my drink,

Where ruffians fight and rail

The gauger never dipp'd his stick
In my cheap ale.

:

But when we household suffrage get,
And honest men prevail;

Then, hey, mechanics, for free trade,
And cheaper ale!

VOL. II.

RUB OR RUST.

IDLER, why lie down to die?

Better rub than rust.

Hark! the lark sings in the sky"Die when die thou must!

Day is waking, leaves are shaking, Better rub than rust."

In the grave there's sleep enough— "Better rub than rust:

Death, perhaps, is hunger-proof,
Die when die thou must;

Men are mowing, breezes blowing,
Better rub than rust."

He who will not work shall want; Nought for nought is just— Won't do, must do, when he can't; "Better rub than rust.

Bees are flying, sloth is dying,

Better rub than rust."

THE HOME OF TASTE.

You seek the home of taste, and find
The proud mechanic there,
Rich as a king, and less a slave,

Throned in his elbow-chair!

Or on his sofa reading Locke,
Beside his open door! *
Why start?-why envy worth like his

The carpet on his floor?

You seek the home of sluttery-
"Is John at home?" you say.

6

"No, sir; he's at the Sportsman's Arms;'

The dog-fight's o'er the way."

O lift the workman's heart and mind

Above low sensual sin!

Give him a home! the home of taste!
Outbid the house of gin! +

* This is not an overcharged picture of the condition of some of the mechanics of Sheffield.

O that I could express in rhyme this sentiment, as it came, clothed in beauty and holiness, from the lips of Dr. Knight, at our last cutlers' feast!

O give him taste! it is the link
Which binds us to the skies-
A bridge of rainbows, thrown across
The gulph of tears and sighs;
Or like a widower's little one-

An angel in a child

That leads him to her mother's chair, And shows him how she smiled.

THE SUMMER-HOUSE.

Go, Mary, to the summer-house,
And sweep the wooden floor,
And light the little fire, and wash
The pretty varnish'd door;
For there the London gentleman,
Who lately lectured here,

Will smoke a pipe with Jonathan,

And taste our home-brew'd beer.

Go, bind the dahlias, that our guest
May praise their fading dyes;
But strip of every wither'd bloom

The flower that won the prize!

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