But yet the thought arises who the pretty maid shall be
To put the leaves in jewelled cup, from thence to sip my tea.
XVII.
Her griefs all flee as she makes her tea, and she is glad; but oh,
Where shall she learn the toils of us who labor for her so?
And shall she know of the winds that blow, and the rains that pour their wrath,
And drench and soak us thro’ and thro’, as plunged into a bath?
XVIII.
In driving rains and howling winds the birds forsake the nest,
Yet many a loving pair are seen still on the boughs to rest;