The lit-tle birds by God are fed
But man must earn his dai-ly bread,
And work that he may eat;
Striv-ing his best, as John does now,
The broad ten-acre field to plough,
Where-in to sow the wheat.
Old John, the plough-man, ne'er re-pines,
Whe-ther it blows, or rains, or shines,
But hap-py still does seem;
And Dick, who leads the fore-most horse,
Goes whist-ling as he walks across
The field be-side the team.
Let us per-form as glad-ly, too,
The work our Mas-ter bids us do,
And then we need not fear;
But when from earth-ly toil we rest,
We all shall meet a-mong the blest
Who served Him tru-ly here. |
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