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A Thanksgiving
by [?]


Lord, I confess too, when I dine,

The pulse is Thine,

And all those other bits that be

There placed by Thee;

The worts, the purslane, and the mess

Of water-cress,

Which of Thy kindness Thou hast sent;

And my content

Makes those and my beloved beet

To be more sweet.

‘Tis Thou that crown’st my glittering hearth

With guiltless mirth,

And giv’st me wassail-bowls to drink

Spiced to the brink.