They drive home the cows from the pasture,
Up through the long, shady lane,
Where the quail whistles loud in the wheat-field
That is yellow with ripened grain;
They find, in the thick waving grasses,
Where the scarlet-lipped strawberry grows;
They gather the earliest snow-drops,
And the first crimson buds of the rose.

They toss the hay in the meadow;
They gather the elder bloom white;
They find where the dusky grapes ripen
In the soft tinted October light.
They know where the apples hand ripest,
And are sweeter than Italy’s wines;
They know there the fruit cluster thickest,
On the long, thorny blackberry-vines.

They gather the delicate sea-weeds,
And they build tiny castles of sand;
They pick up the beautiful sea-shells—
Fairy barks that have drifted to land;
They wave from the tall, rocking tree-tops,
Where the oriole’s hammock nest swings,
And at night-time are folded in slumber
By a song that a fond mother sings.

Those who toil bravely are strongest;
The humble and poor become great;
And from those brown-handed children
Shall grow mighty rulers of state.
The pen of the author and statesman—
The noble and wise of the land—
The sword and chisel and palette,
Shall be held in the little brown hand.