THE WHIRLING WHEEL.

Oh! the regular round is a kind of a grind! We rise in the morning only to find That Monday's but Tuesday, and Wednesday's the same, And Thursday's a change in nothing but name; A Friday and Saturday wind up the week; On Sunday we rest, and attempt to look meek. So set a firm shoulder And push on the wheel! The mill that we're grinding Works for our weal. And although the dull round is a kind of a grind, It has compensations that we may find. Famine and slaughter and sieges no more Are likely to leave their cards at the door. Let others delight in adventurous lives— We read their sore trials at home to our wives. So set a firm shoulder And push on the wheel! The mill that we're grinding Works for our weal. The regular round, though a kind of a grind, Brings thoughts of contentment to quiet the mind: The babies sleep soundly in snug little beds; There's a tight little roof o'er the ringletted heads; The wife's welcome comes with the set of the sun, And the worker may rest, for the day's work is done. So set a firm shoulder And push on the wheel! The mill that we're grinding Works for our weal. Oh! the regular round is a kind of a grind, But the world's scenes are shifted by workmen behind. The star who struts central may show no more art Than the sturdy "first citizen" filling his part. When the king to our plaudits has graciously bowed, The crowd sees the king, while the king sees the crowd. So set a firm shoulder And push on the wheel! The mill that we're grinding Works for our weal. When the great mill has stopped, and the work is complete, And the workers receive the reward that is meet, Who can tell what the Master shall say is the best? We but know that the worker who's aided the rest, Who has kept his wheel turning from morning to night, Who has not wronged his fellow, is not far from right. So set a firm shoulder And push on the wheel! The mill that we're grinding Shall work out our weal.