First praying the Father of Love
Our table with blessings to crown,
And feed us with bread from above.

The wealthy and bloated may sneer,
And sicken o'er luxury's dishes,
And loathe the poor cottager's cheer,
And melt in the heat of their wishes:
But luxury's sons are unblest,
A prey to each giddy desire,
And hence, where they never know rest,
They sink in unquenchable fire.

Not so, the poor cottager's lot,
Who travels the Zion-ward road,
He's blest in his neat little cot,
He's rich in the favour of God;
By faith he surmounts every wave
That rolls on this sea of distress:
Triumphant, he dives in the grave,
To rise on the ocean of bliss.

Now supper is o'er and we raise
Our prayers to the Father of light
And joyfully hymning His praise,
We lovingly bid a good-night.--
The ground's white, the sky's cloudless blue,
The breeze flutters keen through the air,
The stars twinkle bright on my view,
As I to my mansion repair.