TIRED OUT by ANONYMOUS

HE does well who does his best;
Is he weary? let him rest.
Brothers! I have done my best,
I am weary -- let me rest.
After toiling oft in vain,
Baffled, yet to struggle fain,
After toiling long, to gain
Little good with mickle pain,
Let me rest. But lay me low
Where the hedge-side roses blow,
Where the little daisies grow,
Where the winds a-maying go,
Where the footpath rustics plod,
Where the breeze-bowed poplars nod,
Where the old woods worship God,
Where his pencil paints the sod,
Where the wedded throstle sings,
Where the young bird tries his wings,
Where the wailing plover swings,
Near the runlet's rushing springs!
Where, at times, the tempests roar,
Shaking distant sea and shore,
Still will rave old Barnesdale o'er,
To be heard by me no more!
There, beneath the breezy west,
Tired and thankful, let me rest,
Like a child that sleepeth best
On its mother's gentle breast.

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