Tomorrow's sun beholds me free,
Come night, and I no more will own
A master's high authority,
Nor bend beneath his angry frown;
But to my native woods and plains
I'll haste and join the rustic swains.

Gay printed fancies, plates, and chintz,
No more with wonder shall I view,
Nor criticise the various tints
Of pink, or azure, green, or blue,
Save when I pluck the floweret sweet
That clasps my lonely wandering feet.