The Weaver’s Song. [From ‘English Songs, and other Poems, by Barry Cornwall .” Weave, brothers, weave !—Swiftly throw The shuttle athwart the loom, And show us how brightly your flowers grow, That have beauty but no perfume ! Come, show us the rose, with a hundred dyes, The lily, that hath no spot ; The violet, deep as your true love’s eyes, And the little forget-me-not ! Sing,—sing, brothers ! weave and sing ! ’Tis good both to sing and to weave : ’Tis better to work than live idle : ’Tis better to sing than grieve. Weave, brothers, weave !—Weave, and bid The colours of sunset glow ! Let grace in each gliding thread be hid ! Let beauty about ye blow ! Let your skein be long, and your silk be fine, And your hands both firm and sure, And time nor chance shall your work untwine, But all,—like a truth,—endure !— So,—sing, brothers, &c. Weave, brothers, weave !—Toil is ours ; But toil is the lot of men : One gathers the fruit, one gathers the flowers, One soweth the seed again ! There is not a creature, from England’s King, To the peasant that delves the soil, That knows half the pleasures the seasons bring, If he have not his share of toil ! So,—sing, brothers, &c.