 song of the shingle-splitters, by Henry C. Kendall, read for LibriVox.org, by David Lawrence. In the dark wild woods where the lone owl broods and the dingos nightly yell, where the curlew's cry goes floating by, we splitters of shingles dwell, and all day through, from the time of the dew to the hour when the mo-poke calls, our mallets ring where the wood-bird sing sweet hymns by the waterfalls, and all night long we are lulled by the song of gales and the grand old trees, and in the breaks we can hear the lakes and the moan of the distant seas, for afar from heat and dust of street and hall and turret and dome, in forest deep where the torrents leap is the shingle-splitters home. The dweller in town may lie upon down and own his palace and park. We envy him not his prosperous lot, though we slumber on sheets of bark. Our food is rough, but we have enough, our drink is better than wine, for cool creeks flow wherever we go shut in from the hot sunshine. Though rude our roof it is weather-proof, and at the end of the days we sit and smoke over yarn and joke by the brush-fire's sturdy blaze. Or away from din and sorrow and sin where troubles but rarely come we jog along like a merry song in the shingle-splitters home. What though our work be heavy we shirk from nothing beneath the sun, and toil is sweet to those who can eat and rest when the day is done. And in Sabbath time we hear no chime, no sound of the Sunday bells, but yet heaven smiles on the forest aisles, and God in the woodland dwells. We listen to notes from the million throats of chorister birds on high. Our psalm is the breeze in the lordly trees, and our dome is the broad blue sky. Oh, our frank brave life unsmitten by strife, we live wherever we roam, and our hearts are free as the great strong sea in the shingle-splitters home. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Some of the shingle-splitters by Henry C. Kendall, read for LibriVox.org by Ernst Patinama. In dark wild woods where the lone owl broods and the dingos nightly yell, where the curled use cry goes floating by, we, splitters of shingles, dwell. And all day through from the time of the dew to the hour when the mopo calls, our mallets ring where the wood-bird sings sweet hymns by the waterfalls. And all night long we are lulled by the song of gales in the grand old trees, and in the breaks we can hear the lakes and the moan of the distant seas. For afar from heat and duster street and hall and turret and dome, in forest deep where the torrents sleep is a shingle-splitter's home. The dweller in town may lie upon down and own his palace and park. We envy him not his prosperous lot, though his slumber and sheets of bark. Our foot is rough, but we have enough. Our drink is better than wine. For cool creeks flow wherever we go, shut in from the hot sunshine. Though rude our roof, it is weather-proof, and at the end of the days we sit and smoke over yarn and joke by the bushfire's sturdy blaze. For away from din and sorrow and sin where troubles but rarely come, we jog along like a merry song in a shingle-splitter's home. What though our word be heavy, we shirk from nothing beneath the sun, and toil is sweet to those who can eat and rest when the day is done. In the sabbath time we hear no chime, no sound of the Sunday bells. But yet heaven smiles on the forest isles, and God in the woodland dwells. We listen to notes from the million throats of chorister birds on high. Our psalm is the breeze in the lordly trees, and our dome is the broad blue sky. O, a brave frank life, unsmitten by strife, we live wherever we roam, and our hearts are free as the great strong sea in the shingle-splitter's home. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Song of the Shingle-splitters by Henry C. Kendall, read for LibriVox.org by Floyd Wilde. In dark wild woods where the lone owl broods and the dingos nightly yell, where the curlews cry ghost-floating by, we, splitters of shingles, dwell. And all day through, from the time of the dew, to the hour when the mope-hoke calls, our mallets ring where the wood-bird sing, sweet hymns by the waterfalls. And all night long we are lulled by the song of gales in the grand old trees, and in the breaks we can hear the lakes and the moan of the distant seas. Where far from heat and dust of street and hall and turret and dome, in forests deep where the torrents leap, is the shingle-splitter's home. The dweller in town may lie upon down and own his palace and park. We envy him not, his prosperous lot, though we slumber on sheets of bark. Our food is rough, but we have enough. Our drink is better than wine. Our cool creeks flow, wherever we go, shut in from the hot sunshine. Though rude our roof, it is weatherproof, and at the end of the days we sit in smoke over yarn and joke by the bushfire's dirty blaze. Far away from din and sorrow and sin, where troubles but rarely come, we jog along like a merry song in the shingle-splitter's home. Although our work be heavy, we shirk from nothing beneath the sun, and toil is sweet for those who can eat, and rest when the day is done. In the Sabbath time we hear no chime, no sound of the Sunday bells, but yet heaven smiles on the forest aisles, and God in the woodland dwells. We listen to notes from the million throats of coarser birds on high. Our psalm is the breeze in the lordly trees, and our dome is a broad blue sky. Oh! A brave frank life unsmitten by strife. We live wherever we roam, and our hearts are free as a great strong sea in the shingle-splitter's home. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Song of the Shingle-splitter's by Henry C. Kendall Read for LibriVox.org by Harry Caulfield In dark wild woods where the lonel broods and the dingos nightly yell. Where the curlews cry goes floating by, we splitters of shingles dwell, and all day through from the time of the dew to the hour when the mope oak calls. Our mallets ring where the wood-bird sings, sweet hymns by the waterfalls. And all night long we are lulled by the song of gales and the grand old trees. And in the breaks we can hear the lakes and the moon of the distant seas. Or far from heat and dust of street and hall and turret and dome, in forests deep where the torrents leap is a shingle-splitter's home. The dweller in town may lie upon down and own his palace and park. We envy him not his prosperous lot, though we slumber on sheets of bark. Our food is rough, but we have enough. Our drink is better than wine. For cold creeks flow wherever we go, shut in from the hot sunshine. Though rude our roof it is weatherproof, and at the end of the days we sit and smoke over yarn and joke by the bush-fire's sturdy blaze. Or away from din and sorrow and sin where troubles but rarely come we jog along like a merry song in the shingle-splitter's home. What though our work be heavy, we shirk from nothing beneath the sun, and toil as sweet to those who can eat and rest when the day's done. In the Sabbath time we hear no chime, no sound of the Sunday bells, but yet heaven smiles on the forest aisles, and God in the woodland dwells. We listen to notes from the million throats of coarser birds on high. Our psalms the breeze of the lordly trees, and our dome is a broad-brewed sky. Oh, a brave frank life unsmitten by strife, we live wherever we roam, and our hearts are free as the great strong sea in the shingle-splitter's home. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Song of the Shingle-Splitters by Henry C. Candle Read for LibriVox.org by Lucy Perry In dark wild woods where the lone owl broods and the ding-goes nightly yell, where the curlews cry goes floating by, we splitters of the shingles dwell, and all day through from the time of the dew to the hour where the mo-poke calls, our mallets ring where the wood-bird sing sweet hymns by the waterfalls, and all night long we are lulled by the song of gales in the grand old trees, and in the breaks we can hear the lakes and the moan of the distant seas. For afar from the heat and the dust of the street and hall and turret and dome, in the forest deep where the torrent sleep is the shingle-splitter's home, and the dweller in town may lie upon down and own his palace and park. We envy him not his prosperous lot, though we slumber on sheets of bark. Our food is rough, but we have enough, our drink is better than wine. For cool creeks flow wherever we go, shut in from the hot sunshine, though rude our roof it is weatherproof, and at the end of our days we sit and smoke over yarn and joke by the bush-fire's sturdy blaze. Far away from din and sorrow and sin, where troubles but rarely come, we jog along like a merry song in the shingle-splitter's home. What though our work be heavy, we shirk from nothing beneath the sun, and toil is sweet to those who can eat and rest when the day is done, in the sabbath time we hear no chime, no sound of the Sunday bells, but yet heaven smiles on the forest aisles, and God in the woodland dwells. We listen to notes from the million-throats, of chorister birds on high, our psalm is the breeze in the lordly trees, our dome is the broad blue sky, oh a brave frank life unsmitten by strife, we live wherever we roam, and our hearts are free as the great strong sea in the shingle-splitter's home. End of Poem This recording is in the public domain. In dark wild woods where the low-null broods and the ding-goes nightly yell, where the croulous cry goes float in by, we splitters of shingles dwell, and all day through from the time of the dew to the hour when the moat-poke calls, our mallets ring where the wood-bird sing sweet hymns by the waterfalls. In all night long we are lulled by the song of gales and the grand old trees, and in the breaks we can hear the lakes and the moan of the distant seas, for afar from heat and dust of street and hall and turret and dome, in forests deep where the torrents leap in the shingle-splitter's home. The dweller in town may lay upon down and own his palace in park. We envy him not his prosperous lot, though we slumber on sheets of bark. Our food is rough, but we have enough. Our drink is better than wine. For cool creeks flow wherever we go, shut in from the hot sunshine. Though rude our roof it is weather-proof, and at the end of the days we sit in smoke over yarn and joke by the bush-fire's sturdy blaze. For away from din and sorrow and sin where troubles but rarely come, we jog along like a merry song in the shingle-splitter's home. What though our work be heavy, we shirk from nothing beneath the sun, and toil is sweet to those who can eat and rest when the day is done. In the sabbath time we hear no chime, no sound of the Sunday bells, but yet heaven smiles on the forest aisles, and God in the woodland dwells. We listen to notes from the million throats of chorister birds on high. Our Psalm is the breeze and the lordly trees, and our dome is the broad blue sky. Oh, a brave Frank life, unsmitten by strife, we live wherever we roam, and our hearts are free as a great strong sea in the shingle-splitter's home. This recording is in the public domain. Song of the shingle-splitter's by Henry C. Kendall Redfall LibriVox.org by Neelu Ayur In dark wild woods where the lone owl broods and the ding-oves nightly yell, where the curlew's cry goes floating by, we splitters of shingles dwell, and all day true from the time of the dew to the hour where the mo-poke calls, our mallets ring where the wood-burbs sing, sweet hymns by the water falls. And all night long we are lulled by the song of gales in the grand old trees, and in the bricks we can hear the lakes and the moan of the distant seas, from afar from heat and dust us street and hall and turret and dome. In forest deep where the torrents leap is the shingle-splitter's home. The dweller in town may lie upon down and own his palace in park. We envy him not his prosperous lot, though we slumber on sheets of bark. Our food is rough, but we have enough. Our drink is better than wine. For cool creeks flow wherever we go, shut in from the hot sunshine. The rude our roof, it is weather-proof, and at the end of the days, we sit and smoke over yarn and joke by the bush-fire's dirty blaze. For away from din and sorrow and sin where troubles but rarely come, we jog along like a merry song in the shingle-splitter's home. What though our work be heavy, we shirk from nothing beneath the sun, and toil is sweet to those who can eat and rest when the day is done. In the Sabbath's time we hear no chime, no sound of the Sunday bells, but yet heaven smiles on the forest aisles, and God in the woodlands dwells. We listen to notes from the million throats of chorister birds on high. Our psalm is the breeze in the lordly trees, and our dome is the broad blue sky. Oh! A brave Frank life unsmitten by strife, we live wherever we roam, and our hearts are free at the great strong sea in the shingle-splitter's home. End of poem.