1 See, sister, where the chickens trip,
All busy in the morn!
Look how their heads they dip and dip,
To peck the scattered corn!
2 Dear sister, shall we shut our eyes,
And to the sight be blind,
Nor think of Him who food supplies
To us and all mankind?
3 Whether our wants be much or few,
Or fine or coarse our fare,
To Heaven's protecting care is due
The voice of praise and prayer.
POOR MAN'S GRAVE.
1 Old Andrews of the hut is dead,
And many a child appears,
Whilst slowly "dust to dust" is read,
Around his grave in tears.
2 A good man gone where small and great,
And poor, and high and low,
And Dives, proud in worldly state,
And Lazarus, must go.
3 May we among the just be found,
Though short our sojourn here,
Who, when the trump of death shall sound,
May hear it without fear!