 | The Poetical Works of Caroline Bowles Southey |  |
There were no children kept like Isaac Rae's,
And he had seven. “Well, my Phœhebe says,”
Himself once told me, just three years agone,
Presenting proud his last-born little one,—
“She says—the Lord sends hungry mouths, 'tis true,
But then He sends the meat to fill them too;
For we have never wanted, thanks to Him!
Nor sha'n't, while Isaac Rae has life and limb
To labour for them; nor it sha'n't be said
His children ever broke the parish bread,
Not while the Lord is good to us, and still
Gives me the strength to labour, with the will.”
And he had seven. “Well, my Phœhebe says,”
Himself once told me, just three years agone,
Presenting proud his last-born little one,—
“She says—the Lord sends hungry mouths, 'tis true,
But then He sends the meat to fill them too;
For we have never wanted, thanks to Him!
Nor sha'n't, while Isaac Rae has life and limb
To labour for them; nor it sha'n't be said
His children ever broke the parish bread,
Not while the Lord is good to us, and still
Gives me the strength to labour, with the will.”
| The Poetical Works of Caroline Bowles Southey | |