A ROYAL RACE
AMONG the fine old kings that reign
Upon a simple wooden throne,
There's one with but a small domain,
Yet, mark you, it is all his own.
And though upon his rustic towers
No ancient standard waves its wing,
Thick leafy banners, flushed with flowers,
From all the fragrant casements swing.
And here, in royal homespun, bow
His nut-brown court, at night and morn,—
The bronzed Field-Marshal of the Plough,
The Chancellor of the Wheat and Corn,
The Keeper of the Golden Stacks,
The Mistress of the Milking-Pail,
The bold Knights of the Ringing-Axe,
The Heralds of the Sounding Flail,
The Ladies of the New-Mown Hay,
The Master of the Spade and Hoe,
The Minstrels of the Glorious Lay
That all the Sons of Freedom know.
And thus, while on the seasons roll,
He wins from the inspiring sod
The brawny arm and noble soul
That serve his country and his God.