God bless the brawny arms of toil,
The noble hearts and royal
hands,
That plow the plain and seed the soil,
And grow the grains of laughing
lands!
King in the blessed vales of life
Where perfect pleasures first
began,
May blessings come with raptures rife
To crown the humble workingman!
His kingdoms wave with bannered corn
And meadows bright with fairy
bloom,
While duties of his heart are born
Where sylvan shadows hide
the gloom;
Sweet Nature fills his heart with health,
While rustic warbles lead
his soul
Where rill and fountain sing by stealth
And breezes soft with music
roll.
He lives where simple wishes throng,
And give contentment to his
breast,
While tender lullabies of song
Bring angel gladness to his
rest;
No praises linger o’er his name
Where he in silence works
apart,
And honor never links with fame
The modest glories of his
heart.
He needs no kiss of royal crown
To wield the axe or guide
the plow,
Or woo the smiles of heaven down
To cling in clusters on his
brow;
But in the sacred shine of love,
With humble deeds he lives
his days,
And, drinking from the founts above,
He scatters gladness o’er
his ways.
Proud monarch of the tattered vest,
Thy toil is fraught with greater
gains
Than his that bleeds where warrior crest
Slays thousands on the battled
plains!
Thy duty prompts to build, to grow,
The forest fell, the city
plan
And scatter seeds of love below,
Where’er thou art, O,
workingman!