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The Poetry of Real Life

A New Edition, Much Enlarged and Improved. By Henry Ellison
 

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THE LABOURER'S HOLIDAY.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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60

THE LABOURER'S HOLIDAY.

The poor Man's Sabbath-happiness how great!
'Twould gild the surface of a rich Man's week,
Hackneyed and worn, with gold, like that doth streak
The heavëns, when the sun gets up in state:
Pure gold without alloy! that day heaven's gate
Morn opes for him express—for him, though meek
And lowly, Earth doth all her joys bespeak,
And Pleasure on his steps, that day, doth wait,
As on a king's! for him the flower blows,
For him the bird doth sing, as forth he goes
Into his Father's mansion, like an heir;
And well may he be blessed, if this he knows
And feels: and know he must, if that day's prayer,
“Our Father, which art in heav'n,” in mind he bear!