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Title: Song Of The Worker
Author: J. C. Manning [
More Titles by Manning]
TO BE SUNG IN PRAISE OF THOSE WHO DESERVE IT,
BY THOSE WHO THINK SO.
The strokes of the hammer ring out day and night,
And the huge wheels whirl and they spin:
The sky is on fire with the forge's light--
Oh, Oh! for the roar and the din.
The sparks fly aloft like a starry cloud,
And the voices of workmen ring
With a cheery refrain both happy and loud,
And this is the song they sing:
Bless thee, my master--bless thee;
Prosperity always be thine.
May plenty in store ever garnish thy door,
And each day bring its blessings divine.
The cottage that stands by the mountain side
Is bright with the cheerful fire,
And the house-wife gazes with honest pride
On the faces of husband and sire,
Who, fresh from the forge, with their brawny hands
The food that they eat have won,
And this is the wish that each breast expands
Ere the bountiful meal is begun:
Bless thee, my master--bless thee;
Prosperity always be thine.
May plenty in store ever garnish thy door,
And each day bring its blessings divine.
'Tis dark in that cottage: and sorrow is there;
For sickness brings troubles amain;
The sigh from affliction is heard on the air,
And sad sounds the mournful refrain.
But, sun-like in winter, a friend in their need
Pours the light over lattice and floor:
And these are the words that emblazon the deed
From the heart that with love brimmeth o'er:
Bless thee, my master--bless thee;
Prosperity always be thine.
May plenty in store ever garnish thy door,
And each day bring its blessings divine.
A hand that is princely: the heart of a king:
All kindness and goodness combined;
A name that will long, with the virtues we sing,
Deep--deep in our hearts be enshrined.
And may the strong bond of affection like this
Be the pledge of good faith to the end;
For sad will the day be should ever we miss
From our midst such a true-hearted friend.
Bless thee--a thousand hearts bless thee:
Prosperity always be thine.
May plenty in store ever garnish thy door,
And each day bring its blessings divine.
[The end]
J. C. Manning's poem: Song Of The Worker
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