They would rise up for labor, refreshed for the day,
And the song of the lark, as it rose on the gale,
Found Bob at the plow, and his wife at the pail.
A neat little cottage in front of a grove,
Where in youth they first gave their young hearts up to love,
Was the solace of age, and to them doubly dear,
As it called up the past, with a smile or a tear.
Each tree had its thought, and the vow could impart,
That mingled in youth, the warm wish of the heart:
The thorn was still there, and the blossoms it bore,