THE POOR MAN’S GARDEN. 
13 
So let’s be merry while we may, 
For time goes harrying by. 
They took down the sickle from the wall 
When morning dew shone pearly ; 
And the mower whets the ringing scythe 
To cut the bearded barley. 
Come then into the harvest-fields ; 
The robin sings his song; 
The corn stands yellow on the hills, 
And autumn stays not long. 
They’ll carry the sheaves of corn away ; 
They carried to-day so early, 
Along the lanes, with a rustling sound, 
Their loads of the bearded barley. 
THE POOR MAN’S GARDEN. 
Ah yes, the poor man’s garden ! 
It is great joy to me, 
This little, precious piece of ground 
Before his door to see ! 
The rich man has his gardeners— 
His gardeners young and old ; 
He never takes a spade in hand, 
Nor worketh in the mould. 
