THE SHOEMAKER.

Thou Poet, who, like any lark,

Dost whet thy beak and trill

From misty morn till murky dark,

Nor ever pipe thy fill:

Hast thou not, in thy cheery note,

One poor chirp to confer —

One verseful twitter to devote

Unto the Shoe-ma-ker?

At early dawn he doth peg in

His noble work and brave;

And eke from cark and wordly sin

He seeketh soles to save;

And all day long, with quip and song,

Thus stitcheth he the way

Our feet may know the right from wrong,

Nor ever go a stray.

Soak kip in mind the Shoe-ma-ker,

Nor slight his lasting fame:

Alway he waxeth tenderer

In warmth of our acclaim;—

Aye, more than any artisan

We glory in his art

Who ne'er, to help the under man,

Neglects the upper part.

But toe the mark for him, and heel

Respond to thee in kine —

Or kid — or calf, shouldst thou reveal

A taste so superfine:

Thus let him jest — join in his laugh —

Draw on his stock, and be

A shoer'd there's no rival half

Sole liberal as he.

Then, Poet, hail the Shoe-ma-ker

For all his goodly deeds,—

Yea, bless him free for booting thee —

The first of all thy needs!

And when at last his eyes grow dim,

And nerveless drops his clamp,

In golden shoon pray think of him

Upon his latest tramp.