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A bit of verse to end your week,
And wend you on your way, To tide you through the weekend, bleak, Till you return to play. A little rhyme to comfort you, And keep your empty hours From growing woebegone and blue Beyond these balmy bowers. A poem ere we part again, And idleness benights you, Till Monday lifts your heart again With labor that delights you. |
We’re sorry you must go away;
We papers, which you shuffle; But as our end is to allay Your pain, our own we muffle. The weekend, while it’s difficult, Wings swiftly in its flight To Monday, when we may exult: With you here, all is right. Be glad, we pray, and pardon us For what we lack in cheer: The hours shall lie hard on us Until you reappear. |