THE POOR MAN'S GARDEN. 
He knows his red sweet-williams ; 
And the stocks that cost him dear,— 
That well-set row of crimson stocks, 
For he bought the seed last year. 
And though unto the rich man 
The cost of flowers is nought, 
A sixpence to a poor man 
Is toil, and care, and thought. 
And here is his potatoe-bed, 
All well-grown, strong, and green ; 
How could a rich man’s heart leap up 
At anything so mean! 
But he, the poor man, sees his crop, 
And a thankful man is he, 
For he thinks all through the winter 
How rich his board will be! 
And how his merry little ones 
Beside the fire will stand, 
Each with a large potatoe 
In a round and rosy hand. 
