Fisherman & farmer. [volume] (Edenton, N.C.) 1887-19??, 1889-11-08
THE sHoP-GIRL's SUNDAY REST


That thought alone has kept me I'D. alone
gave me the power
To finish all the weary work to live through
days oppressed
So tired, so tired, and longing, praying for a
Sunday rest
Here is my candle; there's my little bed, so
sweet and nice
You're dear to me, you little cot, just now
above all price;
And once when I'm in bed I'll sleep, and
sleep with happy zest,
For l am tired, SO tired, and want long.
long Sunday rest.
ought to eat, no doubt, but I'm not hungry
in the least
And couldn't eat if I were seated at a rich
mans feast;
But let make cup of tea-that may per-
haps be best
And yet l only care for rest, for one long
Sunday rest.
ALI day I'll sleep; to-morrows sun shall never
make me rise;
I'll peep at him between the shades as he as
cends the skies;
But here I'll sleep and dream as he goes on
from East to West,
For have wept and wept, for one long,
quiet Sunday rest.
Pll light my spirit-lamp and heat the water
for some tea;
Here's sugar and a little milk How very
nice twill be!
do declare that, after all, Pm very, very
blest,
For shall [ not be happy when 1 have my
Sunday rest?
Make haste and heat, good water. Waiting
is my bed;
Isleep almost while you are heating, so heavy
is my head;
Yes, good is tea, and good are many things;
but best-oh, best
Of all the world for mes long, delightful
Sunday rest.
The light is out and here am upon my pill
low.
How sweet it is! All me! what made my
head then fiutter so?
I'm weak; bnt I'll be strong on Monday,
when Pm up and dressed,
For then I shall have had my precious pre-
cious Sunday rest
And is it morn? All, yes, for there's the sun
far up the sky,
And OH it makes my heart so glad that Pm
allowed to lie:
For it is Sunday, Sunday true, and 1 have
got my guest
Here I can stay, and have my long, delicious
Sunday rest.
1 dreamed was a child again, and at the
dear cid farm,
So sweet, SO calm, where ~ickedness came
not, nor any harm;
Oh, mother! mother let me lie once more
upon your breast,
For there alone my heart can find a perfect
Sunday rest
I wonder what they're doing now, dear
mother, father, Jack,
must give up the shop, and, soon as 1 am
strong go back,
For there, though we are poor, in peace and
love we yet were blest,
And all our days were like blissful Sunday
rest.
L
ing in my ear!
How faint am? Those sounds, those pleas
ant sounds! Is some one near?
oh no; only dream. In attics no one comes
as guest.
I'm quite alone No friend or foe will break
my Sunday rest.
I hear my little sister Betsie's voice-but she
is dead!
Yes, yes, l see her now; she smooths my pill
low, soothes my head.
I can not breathe What is it weighs so hea
Wy on my breast?
Oh, come dear Betsie, lie with me, and take
your Sunday rest.
How. strange it is! How dark and cold! All
me! am so weak,
oh, where is mother, where is Betsie? Some
one-some one speak!
Oh yes, will be up-oh, speak-on Monday
up and dressed
can't do not see-who calls?-I come-my
-Sunday-rest.
A moan, a quickened breath, and there upon
the pillow hushed,
She Law, so wan, and yet so fair, but like
flower crushed;
And on her bosom lay her thin white hands,
together pressed
And marble cold. She's found an everlast-
ing Sunday rest.
%. B. Bunce.