As long as the heart is blithesome, Will her spirit bear her up, And kindness and love imparteth a zest To sweeten hard life’s bitter cup. But to toil⁠—toil⁠—toil, From the grey of the morn till eve, Is an ordeal so drear for a human to bear, Which the rich can hardly conceive.

What part in the world of pleasure? What holidays are her own? For the rich reck not of privations and tears, Saying, “she is to the manor born.” So dry those scalding tears That furrow so deeply thy cheek, For rest⁠—rest⁠—rest Will come at the end of the week.