Classic Poem

From golden morn till dewy eve,
When the sky gleams bright and red,
With many a strong and sturdy stroke,
I labor for my bread.
No sickly fits nor ills I dread,
My chest is deep and broad,
And though I work the live-long day,
I rise and thank my God.

No lily hue is on my brow,
No rings on my hard hand,
I wield the axe, I drive the plow;
Or when war shrouds the land,
I seize my father's well-tried blade,
And that for Freedom's sod
It is my glorious right to bleed,
I rise and thank my God.

And when my daily task is o'er,
And the sun is sinking low,
As faint with work and honest toil,
To my humble roof I go, —
I see the perfumed city beau
With his ebony walking rod,
And that I'm not a thing like him,
I rise and thank my God.

The widow's prayer upon mine ear,
Unheeded never fell,
I ne'er beheld the orphan's tear,
But my own heart's fount would swell.
I never Heaven for gold would sell,
Nor for wealth would stoop to fraud,
A poor but yet an honest man,
I rise and thank my God.

And when the good sun floods with light
This land of liberty,
And spreads around my happy sight,
As in prayer I bend the knee,
That I am strong and bold and free,
In the land my fathers trod,
With quivering lip and outstretched arms,
I rise and thank my God.