  The early lark, that spreads its wings And mounts the summer air, Obeys its Maker while it sings In morning carols there. The skilful bee from flower to flower Pursues its nectar’d store, Nor has it instinct, skill or power To please its Maker more. But children, born with nobler powers, In paths of vice may stray, Or rise to virtue’s fragrant bower In realms of endless day. Then let me shun those wicked ways Which lead to sin and shame, So shall my heart be taught to praise My Lord and Saviour’s name. |
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