THE OLD LABOURER.

Are you not tired, you poor old man!

The drops are on your brow;

Your labour with the sun began,

And you are labouring now!

I murmur not to dig the soil,

For I have heard it read,

That man by industry and toil

Must eat his daily bread.

The lark awakes me with his song,

That hails the morning gray,

And when I mourn for human wrong,

I think of God, and pray.

Let worldlings waste their time and health,

And try each vain delight;

They cannot buy, with all their wealth,

The labourer's rest at night.