25

Our second Charles, of fame facete',

On loin of beef did dine,

He held his broad sword o'er the meat,
And dub'd it then SIR LOIN.

26

But whether then the nut-brown ale,
In silver tankard borne,

Receiv'd like honour, records fail
In th' house of Barleycorn.

27

Suffice it that he is a Knight
For service to the State,

And may we all his love requite,

His fame still celebrate.

28

Long Life to SIR JOHN BARLEYCORN
I drink with all my heart:

Put round, my boys, the drinking-horn,
But sober let us part.

J. P..

V.

THE PEASANT.

1

THE peasant's blest, who in his cot,
Secure from flatt'ry and deceit,
The bread his honest labour got,

2

In peace can eat.

Whose family to cloathe and feed

Does each new day his hands employ,

But toils, well pleas'd, th' approaching need To satisfy.

3

O happy state, which so contents !
Who's cheerful, tho' he's poor;

Who asks of Heav'n what nature wants,

4

But asks no more.

The miser's fears ne'er rack his breast,

Each night he lays him down in peace ;

No dreams of rapine break his rest,

5

He sleeps at ease.

Rises each morn with early dews,
Salutes with joy the welcome day ;
And in the fields his toil pursues,

With spirits gay.

6

When nature calls for nourishment,
On some soft mossy bank he sits,
And food that's sweeten'd by content,

7

He thankful eats.

Nor guilt, nor fear his joys dismay,
Each thought fresh comfort brings;
Thus happy all the livelong day,

He works and sings.

8

But when the sun retracts his

rays,

And evening smoaks from chimneys come; Then, thoughtless, with an easy pace,

9

Goes whistling home.

There he his leisure hours enjoys,
Laughing at merry tale or jest,
Till sleep o'erpowers his weary eyes;

10

Then goes to rest.

Thus steal away his earthly days,
In health, content, and ease,
Till he the debt of nature pays,

And dies in peace.

11

Each neighb'ring peasant weeps his end,
Dropping a kind unfeigned tear;
And mourns for his departed friend,

12

With heart sincere.

O Heav'n! let me such bliss enjoy,

Crown'd with content, and free from blame;

And may good deeds, whene'er I die,

Record my fame.

J. W.

VI.

THE LABOURER'S WELCOME HOME.

BY MR. DIBDIN.

1

THE Ploughman whistles o'er the furrow,
The Hedger joins the vacant strain,
The Woodman sings the woodland thorough,
The Shepherd's pipe delights the plain:

Where'er the anxious eye can roam,
Or ear receive the jocund pleasure,
Myriads of beings thronging flock
Of nature's song to join the measure,
Till to keep time the village clock
Sounds, sweet, the labourer's welcome home.

2

The hearth swept clean, his partner smiling,
Upon the shining table smoaks

The frugal meal; while, time beguiling,
The ale the harmless jest provokes :

Ye inmates of the lofty dome,

Admire his lot-his children, playing,

To share his smiles around him flock, And faithful Tray, since morn that straying Trudg'd with him, till the village clock Proclaim'd the labourer's welcome home.

3

The cheering faggot burnt to embers,
While Angels round their vigils keep,
That Power, that poor and rich remembers,
Each thanks, and then retires to sleep :

And now, the Lark climbs heav'n's high dome,
Fresh from repose, toil's kind reliever,

And furnish'd with his daily stock, His dog, his staff, his keg, his beaver, He travels, till the village clock

Sounds, sweet, the labourer's welcome home.