770 RUDYARD KIPLING'S VERSE
And there you'll see the gardeners, the men and 'prentice
boys
Told off to do as they are bid and do it without noise; For, except when seeds are planted and we shout to scare the
birds, The Glory of the Garden it abideth not in words.
And some can pot begonias and some can bud a rose,
And some are hardly fit to trust with anything that grows;
But they can roll and trim the lawns and sift the sand and
loam, For the Glory of the Garden occupieth all who come.
Our England is a garden, and such gardens are not made By singing: "Oh, how beautiful!" and sitting in the shade, While better men than we go out and start their working lives At grubbing weeds from gravel-paths with broken dinner- knives.
There's not a pair of legs so thin, there's not a head so thick, There's not a hand so weak and white, nor yet a heart so sick, But it can find some needful job that's crying to be done, For the Glory of the Garden glorifieth every one.
Then seek your job with thankfulness and work till further
orders,
If it's only netting strawberries or killing slugs on borders; And when your back stops aching and your hands begin to
harden, You will find yourself a partner in the Glory of the Garden.
Oh, Adam was a gardener, and God who made him sees That half a proper gardener's work is done upon his knees, So when your work is finished, you can wash your hands and
pray
For the Glory of the Garden that it may not pass away !
And the Glory of the Garden it shall never pass away !