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James Whitcomb Riley - The Shoemaker
Work rating: Low

Thou Poet, who, like any lark,
    Dost whet thy beak and trill
  From misty morn till murky dark,
    Nor ever pipe thy fill:
  Hast thou not, in thy cheery note,
    One poor chirp to confer--
  One verseful twitter to devote
    Unto the Shoe-ma-ker?

  At early dawn he doth peg in
    His noble work and brave;
  And eke from cark and wordly sin
    He seeketh soles to save;
  And all day long, with quip and song,
    Thus stitcheth he the way
  Our feet may know the right from wrong,
    Nor ever go a stray.

  Soak kip in mind the Shoe-ma-ker,
    Nor slight his lasting fame:
  Alway he waxeth tenderer
    In warmth of our acclaim;--
  Aye, more than any artisan
    We glory in his art
  Who ne`er, to help the under man,
    Neglects the upper part.

  But toe the mark for him, and heel
    Respond to thee in kine--
  Or kid--or calf, shouldst thou reveal
    A taste so superfine:
  Thus let him jest--join in his laugh--
    Draw on his stock, and be
  A shoer`d there`s no rival half
    Sole liberal as he.

  Then, Poet, hail the Shoe-ma-ker
    For all his goodly deeds,--
  Yea, bless him free for booting thee--
    The first of all thy needs!
  And when at last his eyes grow dim,
    And nerveless drops his clamp,
  In golden shoon pray think of him
    Upon his latest tramp.
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