To wield the distaff, plough, or spade;--
Their taper fingers, soft and fair,
Are made to twine their silken hair,
Or place upon a brow of snow,
Their gold and diamond rings, to show.
Their dainty lips can sip ice-cream,
Or open with convulsive scream,
Whene'er they meet the farmer's cow,
The ox, or steer, which draws the plough.
Should the mechanic's labor cease,
'Twould wound their pride--destroy their peace;
Their flaunting garments, light and frail,
Would quickly fade, wear out and fail.
Soon, soon, they'd come with humbled pride,
To him whom they could once deride,
To ask a shelter from the storm,
And clothes to keep their bodies warm.
Should farmers their rich stores withhold,
Their lily hands would soon grow cold;--
No more their lips would curl with scorn,
At him who grows and brings them corn;---
You'd see them kneeling at his feet,
To beg for something more to eat;
And plead with him their lives to save,
And snatch them from an opening grave.

Now let us, like the little brook
We've heard of in the fable,
Employ our hearts, our heads and hands,
In doing what we're able;