These farmers and mechanics, here,
Much like the little brook appear;
Reared 'midst fair Franklin's hills and dells,
Where proud ambition seldom dwells;
They view their hands for labor made,
And think that God should be obeyed;
Then grasp the plough and till the soil—
It yields rich fruit, and corn, and oil,
By which the multitude are fed.
And blessings o'er the land are spread.
Mechanics next should take a stand
Beside the yeoman of our land;
Where'er enlightened men are found,
They're showering blessings all around.
Yet time would fail should I rehearse
Their brave exploits, in simple verse;
But there's a class, (I hope not here,)
Who, like the boasting oak, appear;
They think their hands were never made
To wield the distaff, plough, or spade;—
Their taper fingers, soft and fair,
Are made to twine their silken hair,
Or place upon a brow of snow,
Their gold and diamond rings, to show.
Their dainty lips can sip ice-cream,
Or open with convulsive scream,
Whene'er they meet the farmer's cow,
The ox, or steer, which draws the plough.
Should the mechanic's labor cease,
'Twould wound their pride—destroy their peace;
Their flaunting garments, light and frail,
Would quickly fade, wear out and fail.
Soon, soon, they'd come with humbled pride,
To him whom they could once deride,
To ask a shelter from the storm,
And clothes to keep their bodies warm.
Should farmers their rich stores withhold,
Their lily hands would soon grow cold;—
No more their lips would curl with scorn,
At him who grows and brings them corn;---
You'd see them kneeling at his feet,
To beg for something more to eat;
And plead with him their lives to save,
And snatch them from an opening grave.
Now let us, like the little brook
We've heard of in the fable,
Employ our hearts, our heads and hands,
In doing what we're able;
Till all Columbia praise our deeds,
And nations, o'er the waters,
Will tune their harps and chant their song,
For Franklin's sons and daughters.