Poem by Ebenezer Elliott

Saturday

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.

1. In These Days
2. To the Bramble Flower
3. The Maltby Yews
4. The Tree of Rivilin
5. Preston Mills

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