Where I see the blind or lame,
Deaf or dumb, I’ll kindly treat them: 
I deserve to feel the same,
If I mock, or hurt, or cheat them.

If I meet with railing tongues,
Why should I return them railing,
Since I best revenge my wrongs
By my patience never failing?

When I hear them telling lies,
Talking foolish, cursing, swearing,
First I’ll try to make them wise,
Or I’ll soon go out of hearing.

What though I be low or mean,
I’ll engage the rich to love me,
While I’m modest, neat, and clean,
And submit when they reprove me.

If I should be poor and sick,
I shall meet, I hope, with pity;
Since I love to help the weak,
Though they’re neither fair nor witty.

I’ll not willingly offend,
Nor be easily offended: 
What’s amiss I’ll strive to mend,
And endure what can’t be mended.

May I be so watchful still
O’er my humours and my passion,
As to speak and do no ill,
Though it should be all the fashion.

Wicked fashions lead to hell;
Ne’er may I be found complying;
But in life behave so well,
Not to be afraid of dying.

Song 7. 
Summer’s evening.
11,11,11,9

How fine has the day been! how bright was the sun! 
How lovely and joyful the course that he run;
Though he rose in a mist when his race he begun,
And there followed some droppings of rain: 
But now the fair traveller’s come to the west,
His rays are all gold, and his beauties are best;
He paints the skies gay as he sinks to his rest,
And foretells a bright rising again.

Just such is the Christian.  His course he begins
Like the sun in a mist, while he mourns for his sins,
And melts into tears! then he breaks out and shines,
And travels his heavenly way: 
But when he comes nearer to finish his race,
Like a fine setting sun, he looks richer in grace;
And gives a sure hope, at the end of his days,
Of rising in brighter array.

Song 8. 
Cradle hymn.
8,7,8,7

Hush, my dear!  Lie still, and slumber! 
Holy angels guard thy bed! 
Heavenly blessings, without number,
Gently falling on thy head.

Sleep, my babe! thy food and raiment,
House and home, thy friends provide;
All without thy care or payment,
All thy wants are well supplied.

How much better thou’rt attended
Than the Son of God could be,
When from heaven he descended,
And became a child like thee!

Soft and easy is thy cradle: 
Coarse and hard thy Saviour lay,
When his birthplace was a stable,
And his softest bed was hay.

Blessed Babe! what glorious features,—­
Spotless fair, divinely bright! 
Must he dwell with brutal creatures? 
How could angels bear the sight?

Was there nothing but a manger
Cursed sinners could afford,
To receive the heavenly stranger? 
Did they thus affront the Lord?