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 O'er mountain, glen, and lake. 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, 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 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 And when the widow'd pauper comes, I sometimes cheer her with a drop It tells her heart of better days, Ere she grew thin and pale, When James, before the banker fail'd, I'll melt no money in my drink, Where ruffians fight and rail The gauger never dipp'd his stick : But when we household suffrage get, Then, hey, mechanics, for free trade, 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, Men are mowing, breezes blowing, 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 Throned in his elbow-chair! Or on his sofa reading Locke, The carpet on his floor? You seek the home of sluttery- 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! * 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 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, Will smoke a pipe with Jonathan, And taste our home-brew'd beer. Go, bind the dahlias, that our guest The flower that won the prize! |