HOW happy is the rural clown,
Who, far remov’d from noise of town,
Contemns the glory of a crown,
And in his safe retreat,
Is pleased with his low degree,
Is rich in decent Poverty,
From strife from care and bus’ness free,
At once baith good and great?
No drums disturb his morning sleep,
He fears no danger of the deep,
Nor noisy law, nor courts ne’er heap
Vexation on his mind;
No Trumpets rouze him to the war,
No hopes can bribe, no threats can dare;
From fate intrigues he holds afar,
And liveth unconfin’d.
Like those in golden ages born,
He labours gently to adorn
His small paternal fields of corn,
And on their product feeds:
Each season of the wheeling year,
Industrious he improves with care;
And still some ripened fruits appear,
So well his toil succeeds.
Now by a silver stream he lies,
And angles with his baits and flies,
And next the silvan scene he tries,
His spirits to regal:
Now from the rock or height he views
His fleecy flock, or teeming cows,
Then tunes his reed, or tries his muse,
That waits his honest call.
Amidst his harmless easy joys,
No care his peace of mind destroys,
Nor does he pass his time in toys
Beneath his just regard:
He’s fond to feel the zephyr’s breez,
To plant and sned his tender trees;
And for attending well his bees,
Enjoys the sweet reward.
The flowry meads, and silent coves,
The scenes of faithful rural loves,
And warbling birds on blooming groves,
Afford a wish’d delight:
But O! how pleasant is this life?
Blest with a chast and virtuous wife,
And children pratling, void of strife,
Around his fire at night.
– Authors Unknown.