I sing the song of labor, of the lowly smelling soil,
The whirling of the spindle and the whirring of the wheel;
The hand that guides the plowshare and the rugged son of toil, —
The sinews of the country and its weal.

For the pulses of the nation beat within the sturdy arms
That are bared before the anvil, or they wear an humble guise;
And the sentinels of liberty, the shields from war's alarms,
Are wholesome hearts and honest seeing eyes.

Those who feel the sweat of labor, ere they break the wage of bread,
Nor covet goods beyond the pale that bounds an honest reach;
But give to God the glory and the thanks that they are fed,
And rather live a principle than preach.

Ah! God of Heaven! pity for the chilling drops that creep
In tortuous threads, where living strength should swell the nation's veins;
The sloth that cumbers progress, and the useless drones who steep
The curse that follows idle hands and brains.

I sing the song of labor for the keepers of the seal,
For a new day broke in radiance on the warders of the land;
Clearer thought to those who ask it, heaping store to those who kneel;
To the sons of stalwart heart and horny hand.