Come, poor birds, from foes severe Fearless come, you're welcome here; My heart yearns at fate like yours, A sparrow's life's as sweet as ours. Hardy clowns! grudge not the wheat Which hunger forces birds to eat: Your blinded eyes, worst foes to you, Can't see the good which sparrows do. Did not poor birds with watching rounds Pick up the insects from your grounds, Did they not tend your rising grain, You then might sow to reap in vain. Thus Providence, right understood, Whose end and aim is doing good, Sends nothing here without its use; Though ignorance loads it with abuse, And fools despise the blessing sent, And mock the Giver's good intent.-- O God, let me what's good pursue, Let me the same to others do As I'd have others do to me, And learn at least humanity.
Dark and darker glooms the sky; Sleep gins close the labourer's eye: Dobson leaves his greensward seat, Neighbours where they neighbours meet Crops to praise, and work in hand, And battles tell from foreign land. While his pipe is puffing out, Sue he's putting to the rout, Gossiping, who takes delight To shool her knitting out at night, And back-bite neighbours bout the town-- Who's got new caps, and who a gown, And many a thing, her evil eye Can see they don't come honest by. Chattering at a neighbour's house, She hears call out her frowning spouse; Prepared to start, she soodles home, Her knitting twisting oer her thumb, As, both to leave, afraid to stay, She bawls her story all the way; The tale so fraught with 'ticing charms, Her apron folded oer her arms. She leaves the unfinished tale, in pain, To end as evening comes again: And in the cottage gangs with dread, To meet old Dobson's timely frown, Who grumbling sits, prepared for bed, While she stands chelping bout the town.
The night-wind now, with sooty wings, In the cotter's chimney sings; Now, as stretching oer the bed, Soft I raise my drowsy head, Listening to the ushering charms, That shake the elm tree's mossy arms: Till sweet slumbers stronger creep, Deeper darkness stealing round, Then, as rocked, I sink to sleep, Mid the wild wind's lulling sound.
And what is Life?--An hour-glass on the run, A mist retreating from the morning sun, A busy, bustling, still repeated dream; Its length?--A minute's pause, a moment's thought; And happiness?-A bubble on the stream, That in the act of seizing shrinks to nought.
