Classic Poem

Mamma, there's Rachel making hay,
For all 'tis such a sultry day!
For my part I can scarcely stir,
And how much worse it is for her,
All day beneath the burning sun;
It really ought not to be done.

'Tis proper, Sophy, to be sure,
To pity and relieve the poor;
But do not waste your pity here,
Work is not hard to her, my dear;
It makes her healthy, strong, and gay
And is as pleasant as your play.
We've each our task; and they may boast
The happiest life, who do the most.
None needs our pity half so much
As idlers, — always pity such.