The Shoemaker.

Thou Poet, who, like any lark,             Dost whet thy beak and trill         From misty morn till murky dark,             Nor ever pipe thy fill:         Hast thou not, in thy cheery note,             One poor chirp to confer -         One verseful twitter to devote             Unto the Shoe-ma-ker?         At early dawn he doth peg in             His noble work and brave;         And eke from cark and wordly sin             He seeketh soles to save;         And all day long, with quip and song,             Thus stitcheth he the way         Our feet may know the right from wrong,             Nor ever go a stray.         Soak kip in mind the Shoe-ma-ker,             Nor slight his lasting fame:         Alway he waxeth tenderer             In warmth of our acclaim; -         Aye, more than any artisan             We glory in his art         Who ne'er, to help the under man,             Neglects the upper part.         But toe the mark for him, and heel             Respond to thee in kine -         Or kid - or calf, shouldst thou reveal             A taste so superfine:         Thus let him jest - join in his laugh -             Draw on his stock, and be         A shoer'd there's no rival half             Sole liberal as he.         Then, Poet, hail the Shoe-ma-ker             For all his goodly deeds, -         Yea, bless him free for booting thee -             The first of all thy needs!         And when at last his eyes grow dim,             And nerveless drops his clamp,         In golden shoon pray think of him             Upon his latest tramp.