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James Whitcomb Riley - The ShoemakerJames Whitcomb Riley - The Shoemaker
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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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