Yet still no praise belongs to me--
I do not sympathize with thee;
I never can be proud and vain,
And imitate thy boasting strain;
But humbly on my way I'll plod,
For I receive my strength from God."



MORAL.

These farmers and mechanics, here,
Much like the little brook appear;
Reared 'midst fair Franklin's hills and dells,
Where proud ambition seldom dwells;
They view their hands for labor made,
And think that God should be obeyed;
Then grasp the plough and till the soil--
It yields rich fruit, and corn, and oil,
By which the multitude are fed.
And blessings o'er the land are spread.
Mechanics next should take a stand
Beside the yeoman of our land;
Where'er enlightened men are found,
They're showering blessings all around.
Yet time would fail should I rehearse
Their brave exploits, in simple verse;
But there's a class, (I hope not here,)
Who, like the boasting oak, appear;
They think their hands were never made