The Workingman.

    God bless the brawny arms of toil,
        The noble hearts and royal hands,
    That plow the plain and seed the soil,
        And grow the grains of laughing lands!
    King in the blessed vales of life
        Where perfect pleasures first began,
    May blessings come with raptures rife
        To crown the humble workingman!

    His kingdoms wave with bannered corn
        And meadows bright with fairy bloom,
    While duties of his heart are born
        Where sylvan shadows hide the gloom;
    Sweet Nature fills his heart with health,
        While rustic warbles lead his soul
    Where rill and fountain sing by stealth
        And breezes soft with music roll.

    He lives where simple wishes throng,
        And give contentment to his breast,
    While tender lullabies of song
        Bring angel gladness to his rest;
    No praises linger o'er his name
        Where he in silence works apart,
    And honor never links with fame
        The modest glories of his heart.

    He needs no kiss of royal crown
        To wield the axe or guide the plow,
    Or woo the smiles of heaven down
        To cling in clusters on his brow;
    But in the sacred shine of love,
        With humble deeds he lives his days,
    And, drinking from the founts above,
        He scatters gladness o'er his ways.

    Proud monarch of the tattered vest,
        Thy toil is fraught with greater gains
    Than his that bleeds where warrior crest
        Slays thousands on the battled plains!
    Thy duty prompts to build, to grow,
        The forest fell, the city plan
    And scatter seeds of love below,
        Where'er thou art, O, workingman!