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 6 When the gloamin turns dark, Seek repose in grassy park, Rest will fit you for the wavk O’ neist day’s trudgery. Farmers, does the Holy Book Weekly rest for beasts o’erlook? Brave ye still the frowning look That blights your property ?

Since His judgments are abroad, Oh, submissive hear the rod; Grace for oxen green the sod, An’ decks- the gowany lea; Then your Sunday tracks tak’ aff, Worship not the golden calf, Turn, oh turn, from mammon’s laugh To deep humility.

THE CLEAR, COOLING WAVE.

Tune-" The Scottish Blue Bells."

Let the vot’ry of Bacchus exult o’er his barrels, And boast of his freedom while appetite’s slave; We leave him the hotbed of bloodshed and quarrels, And sing the pure fount with the clear, cooling wave. Spring up lovely fountain, beneath the gray willow, While flowers in thy waters their loveliness lave, And roll thro’ the valley thy far-cheering billow, While fields, flocks, and- Rachabites hail thy clear wave.

Chor.—Then loud raise your voices in sweet swelling numbers, And boldly the taunt of the Bacchanal brave; Till echo reply from the cave of her slumbers, The green-margin’d fount with the clear, cooling wave!