Like as my parlour, so my hall
And kitchen's small;

A little buttery, and therein
A little bin

Which keeps my little loaf of bread
Unclipt, unflead.

Some brittle sticks of thorn or briar
Make me a fire,

Close by whose living coal I sit,
And glow like it.

Lord, I confess, too, when I dine,
The pulse is Thine,

And all those other bits, that be

There placed by Thee; The worts, the purslain, and the mess Of water-cress,

Which of Thy kindness Thou hast sent;
And my content

Makes those, and my beloved beet,
To be more sweet.

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'Tis Thou that crown'st my glittering hearth With guiltless mirth;

And giv'st me wassail bowls to drink,
Spiced to the brink.

Lord, 'tis Thy plenty-dropping hand,
That soils my land;

And giv'st me for my bushel sown,
Twice ten for one.
Thou mak'st my teeming hen to lay
Her egg each day;

Besides my healthful ewes to bear
Me twins each year,

The while the conduits of my kine
Run cream for wine.

All these, and better Thou dost send
Me, to this end,

That I should render, for my part,
A thankful heart;

Which, fired with incense, I resign,
As wholly Thine;

But the acceptance, that must be,
My Christ, by Thee.

THE DIRGE OF JEPHTHAH'S DAUGHTER

SUNG BY THE VIRGINS

O THOU, the wonder of all days! O paragon, and pearl of praise! O virgin-martyr, ever blest

Above the rest

Of all the maiden train! We come, And bring fresh strewings to thy tomb.

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