Morning, evening, noon and night,
Praise God!; sang Theocrite.
Then to his poor trade he turned,
Whereby the daily meal was earned.
Hard he laboured, long and well;
Oer his work the boys curls fell:
But ever, at each period,
He stopped and sang, Praise God!
Then back again his curls he threw,
And cheerful turned to work anew.
Said Blaise, the listening monk, Well done;
I doubt not thou art heard, my son:
As well as if thy voice to-day
Were praising God, the Popes great way.
This Easter Day, the Pope at Rome
Praises God from Peters dome.
Said Theocrite, Would God that I
Might praise him, that great way, and die!
Night passed, day shone,
And Theocrite was gone.
With ...