The Sons of toil their annual revel keep.
The forest moaning hollow in the gale;
The cold and cheerless winds surcharg’d with snow;
The headlong torrent rushing down the vale;
Compel them not their banquet to forego.
For them no far-fetcht luxuries are spread,
Nor costly Burgundy their care beguiles:
Yet Peace and Plenty at their table-head
Are seen, with all their family of smiles.
Oft did they fast throughout the by-gone year,