I work for my mother, my babes, and my
And starving and stern is my toil,-
For who can tell truly how hard is the life
Of a labouring son of the soil?

A debt to the doctor, a score at the shop,
And plenty of trouble and strife,-

wife,

While backbreaking toil makes me ready to drop, Worn out and aweary of life!

O, were there no gaps in the month or the year,
No comfort, or peace, or repose,

How long should I battle with miseries here,
How soon be weigh'd down by my woes!

Six days in the week, then, I struggle and strive,
And, O! but the seventh is blest;

Then only I seem to be free and alive,
My soul and my body at rest:

I needn't get up in the cold and the dark,
I needn't go work in the rain,

On that happy morning I wait till the lark
Has trill'd to the sunshine again!

Unhurried for once, well shaven and clean,
With babes and the mother at meals,
I gather what home and its happiness mean,
And feel as a gentleman feels:

Then drest in my best I go blithely to church,
And meet my old mates on the way,

To gossip awhile in the ivy'd old porch,
And hear all the news of the day.

And soon as the chimes of the merry bells cease,
-O rare is the bell-ringers' din!—

We calmly compose us to prayer and to peace,
As Jabez is tolling us in ;

And then in the place where my fathers have pray'd,
I praise and I pray at my best,

And smile as their child when I hope to be laid
In the same bit of turf where they rest!

For wisely his Reverence tells of the dead
As living, and waiting indeed.

A bright Resurrection,-'twas happily said,-
From earth and its misery freed!

And then do I know that though poor I am rich,
An heir of great glories above,

Till it seems like a throne,―my old seat in the niche
Of the wall of the church that I love!

So, praise the Good LORD for his sabbaths, I say,
So kindly reserved for the poor;

The wealthy can rest and be taught any day,
But we have but one and no more!
Aye,-what were the labouring man without these
His sabbaths of body and mind?

A workweary wretch without respite or ease,
The curse and reproach of his kind!

And don't you be telling me, sages of trade,
The seventh's a loss in my gain;

I pretty well guess of what stuff you are made,
And know what you mean in the main ;

You mete out the work, and the wages you fix,
And care for the make, not the men;

For seven you'd pay us the same as for six,
And who would be day-winners then?

No, no, my shrewd masters, thank God that His law—
The Sabbath-is law of the land;

Thank GOD that his wisdom so truly foresaw

What mercy so lovingly plann'd:

My babes go to school; and my Bible is read;
And I walk in my holiday dress;

And I get better fed; and my bones lie abed,—
And my wages are nothing the less!

Then Praises to GOD,—and all health to the Queen,—
And thanks for the Sabbath, say I!

It is, as it shall be, and ever has been,
The earthgrubber's glimpse at the sky;
The Sabbath is ours, my mates of the field,—
A holyday once in the seven:

The Sabbath to Mammon we never will yield,
It is Poverty's foretaste of Heaven!

“The Lamp upon the Railway Engine.”

A BALLAD OF COMPOSURE.

Shining in its silver cell,

Like a Hermit calm and quiet,—
Though so near it, hot as hell,

Furious fires rave and riot,—

The Lamp upon the Railway Engine.

Posted as an eye in front,

'Mid the smoke and steam and singeing, Steadily bears all the brunt

The Lamp upon the railway engine.

So, thou traveller of life,

In the battle round thee crashing Heed no more the stormy strife

Than a rock the billows' dashing : Through this dark and dreary night, Vexing fears, and cares unhingeing, Shine, O Mind, aloft, alight,

The Lamp upon the railway engine.

By the oil of Grace well fed,
Ever on the Future gazing,
Let the star within thy head
Steadily and calmly blazing
Hold upon its duteous way

Through each ordeal unflinching,
Trimm'd to burn till dawn of Day,
The Lamp upon the railway engine.

Safe behind a crystal shield,

Though the outer deluge drench us,
Faith forbids a soul to yield,

And no hurricane can quench us:
No! though forced along by fate
At a pace so swift and swingeing,
Calmly shine in silver state,

Ye Lamps on every railway engine!

D

33

Labour !

A BALLAD FOR OUR MINES AND MANUFACTORIES.

Fair work for fair wages!-it's all that we ask,
An Englishman loves what is fair,—

We'll never complain of the toil or the task,
If livelihood comes with the care;

Fair work for fair wages!-we hope nothing else

Of the mill, or the forge, or the soil,

For the rich man who buys, and the poor man who sells, Must pay and be paid for his toil!

Fair work for fair wages!—we know that the claim

Is just between master and man;

If the tables were turn'd we would serve him the same, And promise we will when we can!

We give to him industry, muscle, and thew,

And heartily work for his wealth;
So he will as honestly give what is due,
Fair wages for labour in health!

Enough for the day, and a bit to put by
Against illness, and slackness, and age;
For change and misfortune are ever too nigh

Alike to the fool and the sage;

But the fool in his harvest will wanton and waste,

Forgetting the winter once more,

While true British wisdom will timely make haste

And save for the "basket and store!"