No more their lips would curl with scorn,
At him who grows and brings them corn;---
You'd see them kneeling at his feet,
To beg for something more to eat;
And plead with him their lives to save,
And snatch them from an opening grave.
Now let us, like the little brook
We've heard of in the fable,
Employ our hearts, our heads and hands,
In doing what we're able;