Waits for his iron shoes beside his door,
And the gay steed that bounds along the course
Neighs merrier when he plates his hoofs with steel;
The temple door on his stout hinges turns,
And in the vault of Mammon rests secure
The treasure guarded by his master-key.
Day after day he toils, as seldom toil
The slaves that drag their lazy length along—
Sleeping at noon that they may dance at night—
In the plantations of the sunny South;