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Written with tears, and stamp'd with toil, Crushed from the earliest hour, Weeds darkening on the bitter soil That never knew a flower.

Look on yon child, it droops the head, Its knees are bow'd with pain; It mutters from its wretched bed, "Oh, let me sleep again!"

Alas! 'tis time, the mother's eyes Turn mournfully away; Alas! 'tis time, the child must rise, And yet it is not day.

The lantern's lit—she hurries forth, The spare cloak's scanty fold