There's many a sluggard, and many a fool, Some lessons of wisdom might learn.

They wear not their time out in sleeping or play,

But gather up corn in a sunshiny day, And for winter they lay up their stores: They manage their work in such regular forms,

One would think they foresaw all the frosts and the storms,

And so brought their food within doors.

But I have less sense than a poor creeping

ant,

If I take not due care for the things I shall want,

Nor provide against dangers in time: When death or old age shall stare in my face,

What a wretch shall I be in the end of my days,

If I trifle away my prime :

Now, now, while my strength and my youth are in bloom,

Let me think what will serve me when sickness shall come,

And pray that my sins be forgiv'n : Let me read in good books, and believe and obey,

SONG XIV.

An Evening Song.

And now another day is gone,

I'll sing my Maker's praise;

My comforts ev'ry hour make known,
His providence and grace.

But how my childhood runs to waste!
My sins how great their sum!

Lord, give me pardon for the past,
And strength for days to come.

I lay my body down to sleep;
Let angels guard my head,

And thro' the hours of darkness keep
Their watch around my bed.

With cheerful heart I close mine
Since thou wilt not remove;
And in the morning let me rise,
Rejoicing in thy love.

eyes,

Hush, my dear, lie still and slumber
Holy angels guard thy bed!
Heavenly blessings without number
Gently falling on thy head.

Sleep, my babe, thy food and raiment, House and home thy friends provide ;

All without thy care or payment,
All thy wants are well supply'd.

How much better thou'rt attended
Than the Son of God could be,
When from heaven he descended,
And became a child like thee!

Soft and easy is thy cradle;

Coarse and hard thy Saviour lay, When his birth-place was a stable, And his softest bed was hay.

Blessed babe! what glorious features!
Spotless fair, divinely bright!
Must he dwell with brutal creatures?
How could angels bear the sight?

Was there nothing but a manger,
Cursed sinners could afford,
To receive the heavenly stranger?
Did they thus affront the Lord?

Soft, my child, I did not chide thee,
Tho' my song might sound too hard:
"Tis thy mother sits beside thee,
And her arms shall be thy guard.

Yet to read the shameful story,
How the Jews abus'd their King;
How they serv'd the Lord of glory,
Makes me angry while I sing.