On the brow of a hill where the stream gurgles down,
With a church within sight stands my cottage of clay;
I rise with the lark, and no lady in town,
By splendour surrounded, spends sweeter the day:
The thorn of ambition ne'er wounded my breast,
If I gaze at fine gentry, I envy them not;
In plain russet gown, pride disturbs not my rest,
For innocence dwells with content in my cot.

Tho' lowly it seems, 'twas my forefather's pride,
The scene of fond youth, where they wanton'd with mirth;
And the woodbine and jess'mine that creep up its side,
On that morning were planted which smil'd at my birth:
My parents, tho' poor, cou'd avoid envious strife,
And ne'er shall their lessons by me be forgot;
Then welcome, ye rich, to the play--things of life,
You know not the pleasures that wait on the cot!

My shepherd is constant, and O what delight
I feel, when at eve he returns from the plain;
As peace crowns the day, love beguiles many a night,
And care and rough weather attack us in vain.
When spring time invites, o'er the daisy--clad meads,
The linnet sings sweet, and cold winter's forgot;
Then who for a court, or a few silken weeds,
Wou'd barter retirement, content, and a cot.