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     And England's priest craft shakes to hear
Of Fox's leathern breeches.

The foot is yours; where'er it falls,
     It treads your well-wrought leather,
On earthen floor, in marble halls,
     On carpet, or on heather.
Still there the sweetest charm is found
     Of matron grace or vestal's,
As Hebe's foot bore nectar round
     Among the old celestials!

Rap, rap!—your stout and bluff brogan,
     With footsteps slow and weary,
May wander where the sky's blue span
     Shuts down upon the prairie.
On Beauty's foot your slippers glance,
     By Saratoga's fountains,
Or twinkle down the summer dance
     Beneath the Crystal Mountains!

The red brick to the mason's hand,
     The brown earth to the tiller's,
The shoe in yours shall wealth command,
     Like fairy Cinderella's!
As they who shunned the household maid
     Beheld the crown upon her,
So all shall see your toil repaid
     With hearth and home and honor.

Then let the toast be freely quaffed,
     In water cool and brimming,—
“All honor to the good old Craft,
     Its merry men and women!”

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