To-morrow will be Sunday, Ann —

Get up, my child, with me;

Thy father rose at four o’clock

To toil for me and thee.

The fine folks use the plate he makes,

And praise it when they dine;

For John has taste — so we’ll be neat,

Altho’ we can’t be fine.

Then let us shake the carpet well,

And wash and scour the floor,

And hang the weather-glass he made

Beside the cupboard door.

And polish thou the grate, my love;

I’ll mend the sofa arm;

The autumn winds blow damp and chill;

And John loves to be warm.

And bring the new white curtain out,

And string the pink tape on —

Mechanics should be neat and clean:

And I’ll take heed for John.

And brush the little table, chill,

And fetch the ancient books —

John loves to read; and, when he reads,

How like a king he looks!

And fill the music-glasses up

With water fresh and clear;

To-morrow, when he sings and plays,

The street will stop to hear.

And throw the dead flowers from the vase,

And rub it till it glows;

For in the leafless garden yet

He’ll find a winter rose.

And lichen from the wood hell bring.

And mosses from the dell;

And from the sheltered stubble-field,

The scarlet pimpernell.