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WASTED.

NO WRITER ATTRIBUTED

AT morn, with rising of the sun,

The jolly fisher's work begun,

For wife and child must bread be won,

Cheerily.

Each boat is launched without delay,

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And o'er the waters of the bay

Like troops of gulls they fly away,

Merrily.

One only leaves the wave untried;

Deserted by the ebbing tide,

Lies solitary on its side

Wearily.

Though dawn be fair and breeze be free,

Some lives will yet fear action's sea,

And waste their own eternity,

Drearily.

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