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life, and perhaps of morals. An eloquent tribute to the farmer's 

 vocation closed the address, which was listened to with interest 

 and attention, and was enlightened by frequent sallies of wit. 

 The following ode was then sung. 



ODE. 



BY REV. E. PORTER DYER. 



Old Norfolk County, thee we bail ! 



Thy proudest day is come, 

 We meet thy rural praise to sing, 



And shout thy harvest home ; 

 And shout thy glorious harvest home, 



And shout thy h rvest home ; 

 With grateful hearts we meet to-day 



To shout thy harvest home ! 



The increase of the rolling year 



A bounteous God has given ; 

 He bless'd thy fields with fruitful showers, 



And gentle dews from Heaven. 

 Thy fields were tilled with care and skill, — 



With fat thy cattle shine ; 

 Thy groaning granaries are filled 



From Ceres' golden mine. 



Since God on Agriculture smiles, 



And crowns the yeoman's toil, — 

 Who would not be a husbandman, 



And till his native soil ? 

 And till the good old Norfolk fields. 



And dwell mid fruits and flowers. 

 As fragrant, rich, and fair as these 



Which grace this show of ours ? 



In ancient Eden's primal days, 



When labor first began, 

 'T was Agriculture made its wilds 



A Paradise to man : 

 A Paradise to man below, 



A Paradise to man ; 

 'T was Agriculture made its wilds 



A Paradise to man. 



There lovely Eve with taste adorned 



His bowers of sweet repose, 

 With pansles, pinks and tulips fair — 



The lily and the rose. 

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