How blest the lowly Peasant's life,
Tho' Splendour scorns his humble lot,
Who, free from lordly cares and strife,
Thinks no gay palace like his cot.

When Nature hails the morning grey,
Health wakes him o'er his fields to roam;
And at the dusky close of day,
Contentment leads him to his home.

Brisk Labour, Mirth, and rural Sport,
Attend him o'er his homely fare;
He knows but by its name the court,
And wonders man should man ensnare.

With breast from pride and envy free,
Disturbers of the tools of state,
He laughs at slaves of high degree,
And cheerful meets the storms of fate.

Far from Riot rude and Noise,
Far from Pleasure's magic ring,
Ever tasting life's pure joys--
Who, ah! who, would be a king!