That taxes are high, and they can't pay their rents;
But my rents and my taxes I'll still hope to pay,
Though on sun-shiny Sundays I do not make hay.

For this shall my heart never call me a sinner,
While I still hope in God I shall ne'er want my dinner;
To lay up a store, I'd try every fair way,
But on Sundays, though sun shines, I will not make hay.

Some plead in excuse, that, not waiting for Monday,
Great battles are won, though they're fought on a Sunday!
At famed Waterloo too,--there's none greater than it,
But then, 'tis well known, the lost Tyrant began it.

'Tis a custom with me to spend godly that day;
But while French go to war, and the English make hay,
Though the season proves wet, and hay gets in but slowly,
Yet I would not do other than keep the day holy.

Far, far be from me, to ape those saving Elves,
Who rob God of his due, to grow richer themselves;
But be mine the pursuit, which all good men approve,
To strive to be rich in the Regions above.

If it rain all the Week, then on God I'll recline,
And not work on Sunday, although the sun shine:
In this Faith deeply rooted, no ills I forbode,
That a man's seldom poorer for serving his God.

_Columbian Centinel_, Nov. 27, 1816.