THE OLD LABOURER.

1 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!

2 I murmur not to dig the soil, For I have heard it read, That man by industry and toil Must eat his daily bread.

3 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.

4 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.