Children

The early lark, that spreads its wings
And mounts the summer air,
Obeys its Maker while it sings
In morning carols there.

The skilful bee from flower to flower
Pursues its nectar’d store,
Nor has it instinct, skill or power
To please its Maker more.

But children, born with nobler powers,
In paths of vice may stray,
Or rise to virtue’s fragrant bower
In realms of endless day.

Then let me shun those wicked ways
Which lead to sin and shame,
So shall my heart be taught to praise
My Lord and Saviour’s name.

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