Find out the haunts o’ the low human pest,
Give to the weary, the poor, and distress’d;
What if ungrateful and thankless they be,
Think of the giver that gave unto thee.
Go travel the long lanes on misery’s verge,
Find out their dark dens, and list to their dirge;
Where want and famine, and by ourselves made,
Forgive our frail follies, and come to our aid.
Give to yon widow—thy gift is thrice blest,
For tho’ she be silent, the harder she’s press’d;
A small bit o’ help to the little she earns,
God blesses the giver to fatherless bairns.
’Neath the green grassy mounds i’ yon little church-yard
An over-wrought genius there finds his reward;
And marvel thee not, when I say unto thee,
Such are the givers that give unto me.
Then scatter thy mite like nature her rain,—
What if no birdie should chant thee a strain;
What if no daisy should smile on the lea;
The sweet honeysuckle will compensate thee.
For the day will soon come, if thou gives all thou may,
That thou mayest venture to give all away;
Ere Nature again her balmy dews send,
Thou may have vanished my good giving friend.
Our Poor Little Factory Girls.
They are up in the morning right early,
They are up sometimes afore leet;
I hear their clogs they are clamping,
As t’little things go dahn the street.
They are off in the morning right early,
With their baskets o’ jock on their arm;
The bell is ting-tonging, ting-tonging,
As they enter the mill in a swarm.
They are kapering backward and forward,
Their ends to keep up if they can;
They are doing their utmost endeavours,
For fear o’ the frown o’ man.