The Old Labourer. (From The Villager's Verse-Book.)
By William Lisle Bowles
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!
I murmur not to dig the soil,
For I have heard it read,
That man by industry and toil
Must eat his daily bread.
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.
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.